TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 


iHARLTON  ANDREWS 


".'  :   •          'ON 
iY  LBERG  ESENWEIN 


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The 
Technique  of  Play  Writing 


BY 

CHARLTON  ANDREWS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  DRAMA  TO-DAY," 
"HIS  MAJESTY  THE  FOOL,"  ETC. 


INTRODUCTION  BY  J.  BERG  ESENWEIN 


THE  WRITER'S  LIBRARY 

EDITED    BY    J.    BERG    ESENWEIN 


THE  HOME  CORRESPONDENCE  SCHOOL 

SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1915 
THE  HOME  CORRESPONDENCE  SCHOOL 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


To  MY  WIFE 


Table  of  Contents 

P««e 

AUTHOR'S  FOREWORD ix 

THE  MODERN  PLAY:   AN  INTRODUCTION  ...  xvir 

GLOSSARY xxvn 

CHAPTER  I — THE  PLAY  AND  ITS  WRITER       .     .  i 

CHAPTER  II— THE  THEME 9 

CHAPTER  III — THE  ELEMENTS 24 

CHAPTER  IV — THE  PLOT  AND  SOME  OF  ITS  FUN- 
DAMENTALS        37 

CHAPTER  V — SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS  48 

CHAPTER  VI — OUTLINING  THE  COMPLICATION      .  63 

CHAPTER  VII — THE  EXPOSITION 75 

CHAPTER  VIII — THE  MANAGEMENT  OF  PREPARA- 
TION IN  THE  PLOT 85 

CHAPTER  IX — SUSPENSE  AND  SURPRISE     ...  94 

CHAPTER  X — CLIMAX  AND  THE  ENDING    ...  106 

CHAPTER  XI — DEVICES  AND  CONVENTIONS     .     .  118 

CHAPTER  XII — THE  CHARACTERS 133 

CHAPTER  XIII — DRAMATIS  PERSONS  AND  LIFE  .  144 

CHAPTER  XIV — PLOT-AND-CHARACTER    HARMONY  158 

CHAPTER  XV — THE  DIALOGUE        166 

CHAPTER  XVI — KINDS  OF  PLAYS    .  181 


Viii  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

Pa«e 

CHAPTER  XVII— THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  ....  194 

CHAPTER  XVIII — SCENARIO    MAKING   AND   ME- 
CHANICAL PROCESSES 201 

CHAPTER  XIX — SELF-CRITICISM 212 

CHAPTER  XX — PLACING  THE  PLAY      ....  226 

APPENDICES 

APPENDIX  A — SPECIMEN  SCENARIO 235 

APPENDIX  B — SPECIMEN  PAGES  OF  PLAY  MANU- 
SCRIPT          249 

APPENDIX  C — LIST  OF  PLAYS 252 

APPENDIX  D — LIST  OF  HELPFUL  BOOKS      ...  256 
APPENDIX  E — ABBEY  THEATRE  ADVICE  TO  PLAY- 
WRIGHTS       258 

GENERAL  INDEX  260 


Author's  Foreword 

Although  there  are  several  recent  treatises  on  the  art 
of  writing  plays,  none  of  them,  generally  speaking,  is  pre- 
cisely a  text-book  of  the  subject — "dogmatic  in  theory, 
so  as  not  to  muddle  the  student  with  alternatives  before 
he  has  grasped  any  one  rule;  detailed  in  the  analysis  of 
examples  and  in  the  statement  of  principles,  so  that  he 
may  see  just  how  a  certain  thing  is  done;  full  of  the  little 
maxims  and  tricks  of  the  trade;  and  supported  at  every 
point  with  practical  exercises."  The  present  volume  is 
not  offered  as  one  conforming  in  every  detail  to  the 
foregoing  standard.  Nevertheless,  it  aims  to  embody 
at  least  some  of  these  characteristics,  in  the  hope  that 
it  may  prove  of  service  as  a  guide  to  him  who  would 
make  his  first  experiments  in  the  art  of  dramatic  compo- 
sition. 

It  is  obvious  that  in  all  primers,  after  the  first  authori- 
tative one,  much  repetition  of  admitted  truth  is  inevitable. 
Unless  the  writer  be  one  of  the  perverse  whose  chief 
pleasure  in  life  is  derived  from  stout  denials  of  all  the 
established  principles  of  art,  he  will  need  to  refer  to  the 
dicta  of  Aristotle,  of  Hegel  perhaps,  of  Brunetiere  certainly, 
of  Lessing,  Sarcey,  Dumas  fils,  Hugo,  and  a  score  of  other 
critics  and  dramatists  foreign  and  domestic,  when  he  is 
laying  down  the  fundamentals  of  the  play-writing  craft. 
There  be  those  of  lesser  breeds  than  such  leaders  in  art 
and  criticism  who,  having  once  restated  these  principles — 


X  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

sometimes  without  credit — have  come  thereafter  to  regard 
them  as  their  own.  Of  course,  their  claims  to  proprietary 
rights  in  these  many  truisms  are  at  best  about  as  valid  as 
would  be  an  assertion  of  copyright  on  the  multiplication 
table,  announced  by  the  author  of  a  new  elementary 
arithmetic.  No  acknowledgment  can  be  due  to  such 
compilers. 

In  a  preliminary  way,  it  will  be  well  to  survey  quickly 
some  of  the  pretty  generally  acknowledged  foundation- 
theories  first  formulated  by  the  great  trail-blazers  of 
dramatic  art. 

Action  is  the  soul  of  tragedy,  or  of  drama  generally, 
asserted  Aristotle.  This  action  means  a  conflict  of  wills, 
Hegel  and  others  hinted,  and  Brunetiere  succinctly  de- 
clared. Drama  deals  with  the  cruces  of  existence  when 
duty  and  inclination  come  to  the  grapple,  Stevenson 
repeated.  Periods  of  great  national  vitality  have  accord- 
ingly given  birth  to  the  greatest  drama,  added  Sarcey — 
and  others. 

That  the  theatre  is  a  place  of  illusion,  based  on  many 
conventions,  is  an  obvious  matter  which  dozens  of  critics 
have  emphasized. 

Dramatic  composition,  like  every  other  sort,  must 
recognize  Spencer's  doctrine  of  the  economy  of  attention. 
Stage  dialogue,  for  instance,  must  be  divested  of  the 
tautologies  of  real  life. 

In  the  theatre  the  appeal  is  primarily  to  the  eye.  A 
gesture,  a  facial  expression,  is  often  far  more  eloquent 
than  much  speech.  Actions  speak  louder  than  words,  as 


AUTHOR'S  FOREWORD  xi 

we  say.  Hence  plays  start  well  that  start  with  their 
essential  conflicts  visualized  in  action. 

A  play  must  have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end. 

Its  characters  reveal  themselves  through  what  they 
say  and  do,  and  their  speech  and  conduct  must  harmonize 
with  the  author's  evident  estimate  of  his  personages. 

Gozzi,  Schiller,  and  others  have  tabulated  all  possible 
plot-materials  and  found  only  thirty-six  different  situa- 
tions. 

The  most  telling  dramatic  action  is  that  which  takes 
place  within  the  hearts  and  souls  of  men  and  women. 

The  theatre  is  a  democratic  institution,  and  coopera- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  audience  is  the  first  essential  of 
success. 

The  drama  of  to-day  differs  from  the  drama  of  other 
times  chiefly  in  that  it  deals  with  commonplace  subject- 
matter  in  a  realistic  way. 

We  might  prolong  this  catalogue  of  familiar  generalities 
almost  indefinitely.  Indeed,  for  the  purposes  of  this 
treatise  it  will  be  necessary  in  a  sense  to  list  the  majority 
of  them  as  we  proceed.  Practically  every  one  has  been 
stated  or  restated  by  virtually  all  writers  on  the  drama; 
therefore  as  I  have  said,  it  is  difficult  to  agree  that  any  of 
them  is  private  property.  Moreover,  it  is  surprising  how 
readily  these  matters  lend  themselves  to  phraseological 
similarity.  Once  an  axiom  has  been  well  said,  few  writers 
find  it  worth  while  to  try  to  say  it  otherwise  than  in  time- 
honored  language.  I  could  quote  interesting  parallels  ad 
libitum.  To  cite  one  very  brief  example: 


XU  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

"It  is  the  convention  of  opera,"  writes  one  critic,  "that 
there  exists  a  race  of  human  beings  whose  natural  speech 
is  song." 

And  another  asserts,  "The  Wagnerian  opera  is  written 
and  composed  about  a  race  of  beings  whose  only  mode  of 
vocal  communication  is  that  of  song." 

Much  longer  and  consequently  more  striking  paral- 
lelisms are  the  easiest  things  in  the  world  to  find.  They 
abound  in  all  criticism — particularly  in  that  of  the  drama; 
and  they  are,  I  dare  say,  in  the  majority  of  instances  in- 
significant. At  all  events,  primers  dealing  with  the  stage 
and  its  art  cannot  hope  to  avoid  them,  any  more  than 
such  works,  to  be  of  practical  value,  can  fail  to  take  into 
account  the  theatre's  most  recent  developments. 

"The  drama,"  says  Sir  Arthur  Wing  Pinero,  "is  not 
stationary  but  progressive."  And  he  adds,  "By  this  I  do 
not  mean  that  it  is  always  improving;  what  I  do  mean  is 
that  its  conditions  are  always  changing,  and  that  every 
dramatist  whose  ambition  it  is  to  produce  live  plays  is 
absolutely  bound  to  study  carefully  the  conditions  that 
hold  good  for  his  own  day  and  generation." 

This  quotation  serves  here  in  a  double  capacity.  In  the 
first  place,  it  illustrates  what  has  just  been  emphasized. 
The  suggestion  is  not  a  new  one — and  manifestly  the 
brilliant  British  playwright  was  not  offering  it  as  a  dis- 
covery. "The  theatre,"  wrote  Sarcey  many  years  ago, 
"like  all  the  other  arts,  lives  only  by  virtue  of  incessant 
change,  of  modelling  itself  upon  the  dominant  taste  of 
each  generation.  Transformation  does  not  mean  deca- 


AUTHOR'S  FOREWORD  riii 

dence;  I  dare  say — and  all  those  who  know  the  theatre 
will  agree  with  me — that  our  time  has  been,  on  the  con- 
trary, one  of  the  most  fruitful  in  great  dramatic  works." 
In  the  second  place,  the  quotation  expresses  the  obvious 
reason  why,  in  the  present  work,  the  aim  is  to  consider 
the  subject  of  play  writing  from  the  viewpoint  not  only 
of  its  immemorial  traditions,  but  also  of  its  most  recent 
phases,  and  so  to  try  to  present  fundamental  principles 
with  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  accuracy  and  sim- 
plicity and  a  constant  view  to  their  practical  application 
in  dramatic  composition. 

Now,  it  is  well  known  that  recent  years  have  constituted 
a  sort  of  "open  season"  for  radicals  fond  of  gunning  for 
dramatic  technique.  Exceptions  to  the  rules  have  been 
greatly  emphasized  in  a  specious  effort  to  upset  the  funda- 
mentals altogether.  Aristotle  has  been  made  a  universal 
target — and  has  reappeared  after  each  fusillade  manifestly 
unscathed.  Perhaps  in  an  effort  to  contribute  a  new 
idea  as  well  as  to  gain  the  support  of  enthusiastic  reformers, 
critics  have  fired  broadsides  at  Brunetiere — though  to  no 
perceptible  effect.  In  the  words  of  the  familiar  war  report 
of  the  day,  the  situation  remains  unchanged.  It  is  true 
that  certain  minor,  nonessential  traditions  of  the  drama 
have  become  obsolete  or  have  undergone  a  gradual  altera- 
tion; but  the  essentials  are,  and  have  of  late  been  re- 
peatedly demonstrating  that  they  remain,  exactly  as  they 
have  continued  since  the  age  of  Pericles  and  before. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  alterations  in  the  technique  of 
the  drama  prove  upon  examination  to  be  mere  shifts  of 


XIV  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

emphasis.  The  stage  has,  for  the  time  being,  at  least,  done 
away  with  such  devices  as  the  soliloquy  and  the  aside. 
(Who  achieved  this  all-important  reform,  I  have  no  idea. 
It  appears  that  there  exist  in  America  two  "schools" 
founded  upon  divergent  views  of  this  mighty  matter:  the 
"school"  that  asserts  Ibsen,  and  the  "school"  that  insists 
Edison,  gave  the  death-blow  to  the  soliloquy.)  The 
emphasis  upon  action  has  been  largely  shifted  from  the 
merely  physical  to  the  psychological  aspects  of  conflict. 
Undoubtedly  the  true  doctrine  in  this  matter  is  that  both 
sorts  of  action  should  coexist  in  the  drama,  and  that  the 
physical  should  body  forth  the  psychological.  Further- 
more, many  experiments  have  been  made  in  plotless, 
actionless,  emotionless  "drama,"  practically  all  of  which 
have  failed  in  the  theatre  or  have  achieved  at  best  a 
negligible,  non-dramatic  success. 

In  spite  of  all  efforts  to  dispense  with  them  in  the  drama, 
conflict,  climax,  character  portrayed  in  action,  humor, 
pathos,  pantomime,  preparation,  suspense,  surprise,  and 
a  score  of  other  such  fundamentals  remain  unchanged. 
And  all  the  many  desperate  efforts  to  redefine  the  drama, 
so  as  to  substitute  for  the  dynamic  and  the  emotional  the 
static  and  the  intellectual  have  proved  vain.  The  student 
of  dramatic  composition  need  have  no  fear  on  this  point. 
If  there  is  no  technique  of  the  drama  with  reasonably 
positive  principles  to  rely  upon,  then  there  is  no  technique 
of  any  sort  of  composition;  then  unity,  coherence,  and 
emphasis  are  mere  idle  chatter,  and  we  may  as  well 
abandon  all  thought-  and  writing-processes  to  the  de- 
lirious gibberings  of  the  ultra-futuristic. 


AUTHOR'S  FOREWORD  xv 

Of  course,  there  is,  after  all,  only  one  cardinal  rule  of 
dramatic  technique:  Be  interesting.  First  act  clear,  last 
act  short,  and  the  whole  interesting,  said  Dumas.  Or, 
as  Cosmo  Hamilton  and  others  have  negatived  it:  Never 
be  dull.  All  the  rest  of  the  technique  of  the  drama  merely 
concerns  itself  with  HOW  to  be  interesting.  Throughout 
the  long  history  of  the  stage,  playwrights  have  found  that 
there  are  certain  ways  of  attaining,  maintaining,  and 
augmenting  interest.  These  discoveries,  from  which  have 
developed  so-called  rules — though  they  must  not  be 
regarded  as  rigid  regulations — are  all  in  consonance  with 
recognized  laws  of  psychology.  Since  the  only  way  to 
interest  a  human  being  in  your  product,  of  whatever  sort, 
is  to  adapt  it  in  its  appeal  to  the  workings  of  his  mind  and 
heart,  it  will  be  found  that  the  really  fundamental  princi- 
ples are  few,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  basic  laws  of 
psychology  are  not  many. 

When  one  hears  that  such  and  such  a  play,  with  a 
seemingly  novel  plan,  has  upset  the  rules  of  dramatic 
technique,  examination  will  usually  show  that  it  is  only 
pseudo-rules  that  have  suffered;  "rules"  based  on  sweep- 
ing generalizations  uttered  before  the  class  of  situa- 
tions to  be  covered  had  been  thoroughly  canvassed. 
"You  must  never  keep  a  secret  from  your  audience,"  the 
theatre  pundits  have  told  us  sagely  and  repeatedly,  only 
to  have  to  modify  their  dictum  so  often  that  they  finally 
take- refuge  in  the  feeble  assertion  that  all  rules  for  the 
drama  are  only  temporary  and — autres  temps,  autres 
m&urs. 

The  real  rules  of  the  technique  of  play  writing  merely 


XVI  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

insist  that  you  must  early  gain  the  emotional  interest  of 
your  audience,  hold  it  and  heighten  it  till  the  close,  and 
then  dismiss  it  satisfied.  Plans  and  devices  which  experi- 
ence has  shown  to  be  reliable,  if  not  always  immutable, 
furnish  the  working  basis  for  this  treatise. 

The  author  with  pleasure  takes  this  occasion  for  record- 
ing his  indebtedness  to  the  editor  of  this  series  of  text- 
books, Dr.  J.  Berg  Esenwein,  for  valuable  suggestions, 
the  admirable  Introduction,  and  the  series  of  questions 
and  exercises  he  has  contributed  out  of  his  long  experience 
with  fiction  writing  of  every  sort. 

CHARLTON  ANDREWS. 
New  York  City, 
August,  1915. 


The  Modern  Play 

AN   INTRODUCTION 
BY  J.  BERG  ESENWEIN 

Dramatic  art  at  its  best  is  the  apotheosis  of  all  the  arts 
combined  in  one;  and  in  such  measure  as  the  play-maker 
understands  and  believes  this  truth  will  his  eyes  be  open 
to  the  wonderful  store  of  material  which  invites  him  to  build 
it  into  that  consummately  satisfying  thing,  an  effective 
modern  play. 

First  of  all — and  it  must  always  be  first  of  all — is  the 
art  of  the  play  itself  as  a  whole,  considered  apart  from 
mere  accessories.  While  modern  stage- writing  is  less 
rhetorical,  less  poetical,  less  literary  than  that  of  earlier 
centuries,  its  artistic  merit  stands  out  in  easy  competition 
with  any  other  one  product  of  twentieth  century  art. 
When  done  supremely  well,  its  solely  literary  qualities  of 
dialogue,  characterization,  and  plot-progress  bring  it  into 
worthy  comparison  with  other  fictional  forms.  But  its 
literary  qualities  do  not  stop  here,  for  just  as  a  good  song- 
poem  must  be  judged  by  its  fitness  to  be  linked  with 
music,  so  that  play  is  best  whose  theme,  situations,  plot- 
development,  characters,  dialogue,  and  whole  atmosphere 
most  perfectly  suggest  all  that  goes  to  make  up  an  artistic 
stage  production.  Since  public  performance  is  its  chief 
end,  for  that  purpose  it  is  conceived  and  its  working  out 
is  directed.  In  precisely  the  same  spirit  as  realism  in  the 
novel  lays  stronger  emphasis  on  the  truthful  characteriza- 


XV111  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

tion  of  the  people  in  the  story  than  on  the  mere  literary 
quality  of  their  speech,  dialogue  in  the  play  should  be 
literary  only  so  far  as  an  effective  performance  of  the 
piece  will  permit. 

Growing  out  of  this  fact  that  the  modern  play  is  meant 
primarily  to  be  acted,  and  in  most  cases  to  appear  in 
printed  form  not  at  all,  is  another  condition:  The  first 
great  aid  to  the  apotheosis  of  the  play  as  art  is  the  power 
of  trained  vocal  expression.  The  lines  of  the  drama,  whose 
"lilting  fluency  flowers  every  now  and  then  into  a  phrase 
of  golden  melody" — to  quote  a  charming,  if  mixed,  meta- 
phor of  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton's — need  an  adequate 
reading  to  show  their  full  value. 

Add  to  the  effect  of  the  "word  fitly  spoken"  the  mag- 
netic presence  of  an  impressive  personality,  and  to  this 
add  again  the  delight  of  a  subtle  phrase  delicately  inter- 
preted by  one  who  has  given  the  lines  a  hundred-fold  more 
consideration  than  we  could  ourselves  usually  give  to  the 
printed  page,  and  we  begin  to  see  the  artistic  values  of 
the  play  piling  up.  Yet  we  have  only  begun  the  evalua- 
tion. To  see,  and  not  merely  imagine,  the  characters  in 
the  play  working  out  some  action;  to  catch  in  one  posture, 
one  gesture,  one  look,  more  than  the  novelist  might  con- 
vey in  a  page;  to  feel  that  two,  three,  a  dozen  characters 
— each  speaking  to  the  eye  by  his  dress,  and  gait,  and 
behavior — are  actually  living  their  lives  before  us,  is 
immeasurably  more  real-seeming  than  to  meet  them  one 
at  a  time  in  a  book.  Shattered  Ophelia  by  the  water's 
edge  lives  in  our  sympathies  when  her  every  word  has 
been  forgotten. 


THE    MODERN   PLAY — AN   INTRODUCTION  XIX 

In  setting,  too,  we  find  one  more,  and  a  very  great, 
addition  to  the  apotheosis.  In  the  modern  play  the  realis- 
tic set  is  no  longer  an  accessory  but  part  of  the  dramatist's 
conception  of  the  story  he  is  telling  in  sound,  action,  form, 
and  color  to  those  who  listen  and  look.  It  is  a  far  cry  from 
the  sceneless  and  uncovered  stage  of  Shakespeare's  era  to 
the  perfect  illusions  of  present-day  inscenierung,  the  child  of 
Science  wedded  with  Art.  The  artistic  beauty  and  reality 
of  setting,  the  carefully  placed  dramatic  emphasis,  the 
essential  harmony  of  scene  and  tone,  the  effect  of  sug- 
gested atmosphere,  are  proving  wonderful  helpers  in  the 
presentation  of  the  play  as  an  artistic  whole.  Indeed, 
even  a  new  art — stage  designing — has  leaped  forth  to 
help  the  scene  designer  produce  his  effects  at  the  call  of 
the  playwright.  How  notable  has  been  the  progress  in 
this  field  alone  may  be  read  in  Mr.  Hiram  Kelly  Moder- 
well's  recent  book,  "The  Theatre  of  Today." 

The  kindred  arts  of  painting,  sculpture,  architecture, 
and  interior  and  exterior  decorating,  all  bring  gifts  to  aid 
dramatic  presentment.  Incidental  music  has  a  delicate 
share,  too,  and  that  playwright  is  happy  whose  producer 
lays  no  more  than  due  emphasis  on  the  contributory 
musical  accompaniment. 

But  modern  stage  art  owes  more  to  the  new  effects  of 
decorative  and  symbolic  color  and  light  than  to  any  other 
accessories.  From  the  Elizabethan  daylight  performances, 
through  the  oil-lamp  period  with  its  feeble  lights  focused 
on  the  stage  apron,  down  to  the  gas  footlights  and  over- 
head lights,  was  a  long  road;  yet  the  miraculous  schemes 
of  electric  lighting  in  vogue  today  mark  a  still  greater 


XX  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

advance — they  have  created  a  new  stage  and  a  new  stage 
art.  No  longer  need  the  author's  lines  forsake  the  story  of 
the  play  in  order  to  tell  of  approaching  twilight  or  herald 
the  rise  of  a  storm.  When  day  dawns  with  all  its  soften- 
ing shadows  and  crimsoning  hill  tops  to  make  nature 
lovely,  we  now  see  in  "As  You  Like  It"  a  shepherd  leading 
his  flock  of  sheep  down  the  glade  and  feel  ourselves  to  be 
on  the  scene  with  the  time  and  atmosphere  attuned  to  the 
mood  of  the  action. 

Thus  the  magic  of  trained  human  voices,  the  charm  and 
reality  of  the  actor's  representative  and  interpretive  art, 
the  truthful  setting  which  emphasizes  yet  does  not 
obtrude  the  essentials  of  time  and  place  and  circumstance, 
the  harmonies  and  contrasts  of  color,  the  beauty  or  the 
studied  ugliness  of  form,  the  eloquence  of  designed  move- 
ment, the  contribution  of  music,  and  the  variation  of  light 
and  darkness,  unite  with  the  lines  of  the  play  to  produce 
what  I  have  ventured  to  call  the  apotheosis  of  all  the  arts 
centred  in  this  one.  Singly,  each  of  these  arts  may  find 
greater  and  more  complete  expression  elsewhere,  but 
nowhere  else  do  they  so  wonderfully  work  together. 

Now,  all  this  is  emphasized  not  so  much  to  show,  what 
we  all  admit,  that  the  stage  of  today  is  a  new  place,  but 
to  stress  the  importance  of  recognizing  the  new  materials 
for  play-making.  In  other  words,  the  efficient  play- 
writer  is  more  than  his  title  explicitly  shows:  he  is  a 
pizy-wright.  As  such,  he  is  concerned  with  all  the  possi- 
bilities of  present-day  stage-craft,  for  while  the  installa- 
tion and  management  of  "effects"  belong  to  the  pro- 


THE   MODERN   PLAY — AN   INTRODUCTION  XXI 

ducer  and  the  stage  director,  the  playwright  must  be 
aware  of  his  resources  and  reckon  with  each  one  of  them 
when  he  devises  the  means  by  which  his  story  is  to  be 
presented. 

The  new  stage-art,  therefore,  is  not  only  an  asset  to  the 
playwright,  but  a  liability  as  well.  By  so  much  as  his 
play  may  be  helped  by  the  use  of  "effects,"  will  their 
absence  or  misuse  mar  the  production.  For  who  must  put 
them  into  the  play?  It  will  not  do  to  suppose  that  Mr. 
Aladdin  Producer  will  supply  all  these  helps  and  thus  trans- 
mute a  manuscript  into  a  golden  play.  But,  not  every 
play  lends  itself  to  scenic  effects,  and  to  cloak  a  weak  fable 
with  an  elaborate  staging  would  smother  it;  and  besides, 
the  true,  the  best,  use  of  setting  and  its  artistic  accessories 
is  by  no  means  always  an  elaborate  one,  but  is  oftenest 
simple,  and  always  unobstrusively  secondary  to  the  play 
itself.  It  is  for  the  author  to  plan  the  contrasts  and  har- 
monies of  time,  place,  and  incident,  invent  a  use  for  prop- 
erties that  will  most  effectively  show  the  action  of  the  story, 
and  so  devise  his  climaxes  that  the  characters  may  be  seen 
in  striking  relationships  both  to  each  other  and  to  the  set- 
ting, in  part  and  entire;  but  how  these  physical  matters 
may  best  be  handled  is  at  last  the  problem  of  the  stage 
director.  The  essential  point  is,  the  producer  and  the 
director  must  have  picture-inspiring  materials  wherewith 
to  work. 

That  all  the  literary  arts  have  much  in  common  is 
obvious,  and  equally  so  that  the  novel  and  the  drama 
are  of  all  the  most  closely  allied.  In  both  we  have 


XXli  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

the  same  stress  on  plotted  story  and  on  characters  in 
contrast  as  they  work  out  the  story  in  a  given  setting. 
The  play,  too,  in  further  similarity  to  the  novel,  often 
exemplifies  a  theme,  and  is  designed  to  give  a  unified 
picture  of  life. 

But  he  who  attempts  the  play  must  forget  the  primary 
appeal  of  the  novelist,  which  is  to  the  fancy,  and  visualize 
everything  for  the  spectator — the  dramatist's  appeal  is 
directly  to  the  eye,  and  if  he  makes  any  demands  on  the 
reflective  and  imaging  faculties  of  his  audience  it  is  only 
in  a  secondary  way,  through  what  they  see  and  feel. 

This  brings  up  the  fundamental  question,  so  often  dis- 
cussed and  yet  so  hard  to  answer:  What  is  dramatic? 

The  perennial  nature  of  this  inquiry  is  not  chiefly 
theoretical  for  the  playwright,  as  it  is  for  the  critic,  be- 
cause the  maker  of  plays  is  momently  confronted  with  the 
problem  of  what  sort  of  material  he  must  choose  and  how 
he  must  handle  it  so  as  to  make  his  play  more  than  a 
series  of  pictures  of  life.  And  it  is  precisely  here  that  the 
differentiation  between  dramatic  and  non-dramatic  must 
be  made — it  is  the  difference  between  a  plotted  story  and 
a  literary  sketch:  the  former  hinges  its  action  on  a  crisis, 
a  tangle,  a  cross-purpose,  a  struggle,  in  the  affairs  of  its 
chief  characters,  and  then  shows  how  that  crisis  is  brought 
to  its  solution;  the  latter  is  a  mere  picture  of  static  emo- 
tion— and  as  such  may  be  most  effective,  be  it  said. 

The  essence  of  the  dramatic  in  a  situation  lies  in  action 
and  counter-action ;  not  merely  in  action,  but  in  both.  The 
initial  action  may  arise  in  the  inner  man — in  the  will,  or  in 
the  emotions — but  it  must  not  end  there.  Unless  the  mo- 


THE   MODERN   PLAY — AN   INTRODUCTION  XX111 

tivating  force  is  strong  enough  to  make  feelings  and  will 
come  to  a  grapple  with  some  antagonist,  whether  seen  or 
unseen,  material  or  immaterial,  the  impulse  dies.  Then, 
indeed,  we  might  have  the  motif  for  -a  literary  sketch,  a 
lyric  poem,  or  a  painted  picture;  but  for  a  drama,  never. 

On  the  other  hand,  let  the  man  push  his  impulse  first 
to  resolve  and  later  to  action,  and  let  that  action  run 
counter,  say,  to  his  own  nature,  his  training,  his  surround- 
ings, his  friends,  or  his  enemies,  thus  resulting  in  a  definite 
issue — then  we  have  the  beginnings  of  a  struggle  whose 
outworkings,  as  Mr.  Andrews  has  clearly  pointed  out  in 
this  volume,  make  the  very  heart  of  drama. 

But,  further,  there  must  be  counter-action.  A  walk-over 
makes  a  poor  fight,  in  a  play  as  in  a  baseball  game.  Hence 
the  action  must  arouse  opposition  worth  wrestling  with, 
and  whose  outcome  seems  so  significant  to  the  spectators 
that  they  more  or  less  consciously  take  sides.  The  feeblest 
dramatic  action  in  the  world  is  that  which  arouses  in  no 
one  a  single  pang  when  defeat  comes  to  one  side  or  the 
other. 

By  all  odds  the  greatest  number  of  successful  plays, 
however,  begin  t'other  way  about:  the  action  starts  not 
from  within  the  man  but  from  without,  moves  upon  the 
will  of  the  person  attacked,  and  arouses  him  to  opposition, 
which  in  turn  brings  out  greater  effort  against  him — and 
so  on,  shuttlecock  and  battledore,  until  the  high  point  in 
the  struggle  is  reached,  when,  by  some  force  expected  or 
unexpected,  the  issue  is  decided  and  a  quick  aftermath  is 
either  shown  or  suggested. 

Mr.  Andrews  has  dwelt  at  sufficient  length  on  this  essen- 


XXIV  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

tial  element  of  struggle  in  the  drama,  but  I  may  be  per- 
mitted a  further  word  on  the  reasons  why  the  spectators 
feel  such  deep  interest  in  the  contest. 

Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  has  pointed  out,  in  an  interesting 
chapter  on  "The  Psychology  of  Theatre  Audiences,"1 
that  the  drama  is  written  for  "a  crowd,"  composed  of 
many  kinds  of  folk,  but  mostly  women,  who  are  prone  to 
sink  their  normal  differences  in  a  common  interest;  and 
further,  "that  characters  are  interesting  to  a  crowd  only 
in  those  crises  of  emotion  that  bring  them  to  the  grapple." 
This  is  quite  true,  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  something  more 
than  the  joy  of  witnessing  a  struggle  must  be  found  to 
account  for  the  deep,  partisan,  and  often  unmoral  interest 
felt  by  an  audience  in  the  struggle  on  which  the  play 
hinges,  particularly  an  audience  in  which  women  are  in 
the  majority. 

Other  critics,  notably  M.  Brunetiere,  as  Mr.  Hamilton 
observes,  have  insisted  on  the  essential  nature  of  struggle 
in  the  drama,  but  I  do  not  remember  seeing  it  noted  that 
the  element  of  danger  to  a  character  engaged  in,  or  concerned 
in,  a  struggle  is  the  crucial  point  of  interest  for  the  spectators. 

The  skillful  dramatist  rarely  begins  with  a  struggle  but 
uses  every  device  short  of  a  tour  de  force  to  win  interest 
and  sympathy  for  his  chief  character;  so  that  when  the 
issue  is  joined,  sides  will  have  been  already  taken  by  the 
on-lookers,  both  on  the  stage  and  in  the  audience;  for  the 
opponent — the  "villain,"  in  old  parlance — must  "de- 
serve" little  sympathy,  if  not  actual  reprobation,  from  the 
judges  of  the  contest. 

*Tke  Theory  of  the  Theatre. 


THE   MODERN   PLAY — AN   INTRODUCTION  XXV 

But  the  dramatist  goes  further — he  sees  to  it  that  the 
object  striven  for  is  of  importance,  not  only  to  the  con- 
testants but  in  the  estimation  of  the  audience.  And  it 
must  be  worthily  fought  for  by  the  hero,  since  he  must 
retain  the  sympathy  he  has  won. 

But  over  and  above  all  this  lies  the  element  of  danger. 
What  will  victory  win,  is  rarely  so  poignant  a  question  as 
what  defeat  will  cost.  The  enthralling  thing  in  "The 
Easiest  Way"  was  the  terrible  alternative  that  opened 
up  before  the  young  woman;  though  it  must  be  said  that 
what  chiefly  revolted  the  audience  was  that  Miss  Starr 
had  put  so  much  charm  into  the  character  she  essayed 
that  when  the  girl  chose  "Broadway"  one  felt  that  so 
sweet  a  spirit  could  not  have  made  so  low  a  choice.  The 
play  was  well  motivated,  but  the  acting  was  not  down  to 
the  level  of  a  woman  who  was  weak  enough  to  fall  a  second 
time. 

It  is  the  element  of  reward  and  penalty — of  danger,  in 
other  words — that  forms  yet  another  big  plot-factor  in  the 
play:  that  of  suspense.  Of  this,  too,  Mr.  Andrews  has 
written  effectively.  The  joys  of  reward  are  great  only  to 
those  who  face  the  danger  of  loss  or  non-attainment.  What 
the  defeat  of  the  protagonist  may  mean  is  what  makes 
the  fight  "for  blood."  We  almost  know  the  outcome — yet 
we  tremble!  It  is  the  championship  games  that  count, 
for  defeat  means  no  "look  in"  for  the  finals. 

We  are  nowadays  more  ready  to  believe  that  books  such 
as  the  present  treatise  are  of  serious  value  to  those  who 
would  master  an  art,  yet  there  are  still  those  in  high  places 


XXVI  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WBITING 

who  maintain  that  experience  is  the  only  teacher.  But  is 
it  not  plain  that  principles  gathered  by  induction,  after 
fairly  observing  a  large  number  of  cases,  ought  to  merit 
careful  consideration?  And  is  it  not  worth  while  to  be 
told  how  successful  writers  have  secured  their  effects? 
No  one,  I  suppose,  would  seriously  maintain  that  students, 
however  faithful,  could  be  taught  to  write  any  piece  of 
creative  literary  work  without  possessing  an  alert  mind, 
some  degree  of  native  endowment  for  invention  and  self- 
expression,  and  a  well  developed  taste  for  the  art  to  be 
essayed.  But,  given  these,  together  with  a  teachable 
spirit,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  rest  is  patient  labor, 
under  intelligent  instruction.  The  danger  of  unguided 
practise  in  dramatic  art  lies  here:  the  playwright  may  fail 
to  discriminate  between  defects  in  popular  plays,  defects 
which  are  mitigated  by  unusually  competent  or  popular 
actors — and  the  meritorious  points  in  those  same  plays:  as 
in  "Ready  Money,"  for  instance.  One  strong  dramatic 
situation  is  likely  to  gloss  over  the  essential  weakness  of 
another  situation  in  the  same  play.  The  public  likes 
what  it  likes,  almost  or  quite  irrespective  of  adjacent 
things  it  does  not  like,  therefore  strong  approval  for  the 
one  case  begets  a  tolerance  for  the  other. 

So  in  taking  up  the  study  of  dramatic  art,  whether  for 
the  larger  enjoyment  of  the  play  as  a  spectator  or  with  the 
purpose  of  dramaturgic  writing,  I  can  think  of  no  guid- 
ance so  helpful  as  the  sort  offered  by  the  present  volume. 


Glossary 


ACTION. — "The  thing  represented  as  done  in  a  drama;  the  event  or 
series  of  events,  real  or  imaginary,  forming  the  subject  of  a  fable, 
poem,  or  other  composition."  (Murray's  English  Dictionary.) 
"Action,"  asserts  Professor  Butcher,  commenting  on  Aristotle, 
"embraces  not  only  the  deeds,  the  incidents,  the  situations,  but  also 
the  mental  processes,  and  the  motives  which  underlie  the  outward 
events  or  which  result  from  them.  It  is  the  compendious  expression 
for  all  these  forces  working  together  toward  a  definite  end." 

ANTAGONIST. — The  chief  opposer  of  the  protagonist  (which  see). 

ASIDE. — A  speech  spoken  within  sight  of  the  other  actors,  but  obvi- 
ously not  for  their  ears. 

CATASTROPHE. — "The  change  or  revolution  which  produces  the 
conclusion  or  final  event  of  a  dramatic  piece."  (Johnson.)  The 
denouement  (which  see). 

CHARACTER.— "A  personality  invested  with  distinctive  attributes 
and  qualities,  by  a  novelist  or  dramatist.  (Murray.) 

CHARACTERIZE. — "To  describe  or  delineate  the  character  or 
peculiar  qualities  of  a  person  or  thing."  (Murray.) 

CLIMAX. — "The  highest  point  of  anything  reached  by  gradual 
ascent;  the  culmination,  height,  acme,  apex.  (Murray.)  The  sum- 
mit of  interest;  the  point  of  greatest  emotional  tension. 

COMEDY. — "A  stage  play  of  a  light  and  amusing  character,  with  a 
happy  conclusion  to  its  plot."  "That  branch  of  the  drama  which 
adopts  a  humorous  or  familiar  style,  and  depicts  laughable  characters 
and  incidents."  (Murray.)  In  high,  or  true,  comedy,  the  plot  is 
governed  by  the  characters;  and  human  nature,  rather  than  incident, 
is  stressed. 

COMPLICATION. — The  interweaving  of  the  strands  of  action  so  as 
to  bring  out  the  struggle. 

CONNOTATION. — "That  which  is  implied  in  a  word  [a  look,  a 
gesture,  a  situation,  etc.,]  in  addition  to  its  essential  or  primary 
meaning."  (Murray.) 


XXV111  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

CRISIS. — "A  vitally  important  or  decisive  stage  in  the  progress  of 
anything;  a  turning-point;  also,  a  state  of  affairs  in  which  a  decisive 
change  for  better  or  worse  is  imminent."  (Murray.) 

DENOUEMENT. — "The  final  unravelling  of  the  complications  of  a 
plot  in  a  drama,  novel,  etc.;  the  catastrophe;  .  .  .  the  final  solu- 
tion or  issue  of  a  complication,  difficulty,  or  mystery."  (Murray.) 

DRAMA. — A  story,  containing  a  fundamental  element  of  conflict; 
composed  of  a  unified  sequence  of  events;  having  a  beginning,  a 
middle,  and  an  end;  and  told  in  action — usually  by  means  of  dia- 
logue— by  the  personages  taking  part  in  it. 

DRAMATURGY. — "Dramatic  composition;  the  dramatic  art." 
(Murray.) 

EPISODE. — "A  digression  in  a  play,  separable  from  the  main  sub- 
ject, yet  arising  naturally  from  it."  (Murray.) 

EXPOSITION.— "The  part  of  the  play  in  which  the  theme  or 
subject  is  opened  out."  (Webster's  Dictionary.)  The  conveyance  to 
the  audience  of  preliminary  information  necessary  to  a  comprehension 
of  what  is  to  follow. 

FABLE.— "The  plot  or  story  of  a  play."    (Murray.) 

FARCE. — "A  dramatic  work  which  has  for  its  sole  object  to  excite 
laughter."  (Murray.)  A  play,  chiefly  of  plot,  farced,  or  stuffed,  with 
ludicrous  situations. 

GENRE. — "Kind;  sort;  style."    (Murray.) 

INCIDENT. — "A  distinct  piece  of  action  in  a  play."    (Murray.) 

INTRIGUE. — "The  plot  of  a  play  .  .  .  ;  a  complicated  scheme 
of  designs,  actions,  and  events."  (Webster.) 

INVENTION. — "The  devising  of  a  subject,  idea,  or  method  of  treat- 
ment, by  exercise  of  the  intellect  or  imagination;  'the  choice  and 
production  of  such  objects  as  are  proper  to  enter  into  the  composi- 
tion of  a  work  of  art.'"  (Murray.) 

LOGIC. — "Something  that  tends  to  convince  as  completely  as 
reasoning;  anything  that  as  an  antecedent  determines  what  must 


GLOSSARY 

follow;    as,  the  logic  of  the  situation  made  surrender  inevitable. 
(Webster.) 

(MELODRAMA. — "A  dramatic  piece  characterized  by  sensational 
incident  and  violent  appeals  to  the  emotions,  but  with  a  happy  end- 
ing." (Murray.)  In  melodrama  plot  takes  precedence  over  char- 
acterization. 

MISE  EN  SCENE. — "The  necessary  preparations,  as  scenery,  proper- 
ties, etc.,  for  the  representation  of  a  play;  stage  setting;  also,  the 
arrangement  of  the  scenery  and  players  in  a  scene;  scene."  (Web- 
ster.) 

PLOT. — "The  arrangement  of  the  incidents."  (Aristotle.)  The 
plan  or  scheme  of  a  play,  resultant  on  the  interweaving  and  subse- 
quent disentangling  of  the  strands  of  action. 

PROTAGONIST.— "The  chief  personage  in  a  drama."    (Murray.) 

PROPERTY. — "Any  portable  article,  as  an  article  of  costume  or 
furniture,  used  in  acting  a  play;  a  stage  requisite,  appurtenance,  or 
accessory."  (Murray.) 

REALISM. — "Close  resemblance  to  what  is  real;  fidelity  of  repre- 
sentation, rendering  the  precise  details  of  the  real  thing  or  scene." 
(Murray.) 

SCENARIO. — "A  sketch  or  outline  of  the  plot  of  a  play,  giving  par- 
ticulars of  the  scenes,  situations,  etc."  (Murray.) 

SITUATION. — "A  group  of  circumstances;  a  posture  of  affairs; 
specifically,  in  theatrical  art,  a  crisis  or  critical  point  in  the  action  of 
a  play."  (Century  Dictionary.) 

STORY.— "The  plot  or  intrigue  of  a  drama."    (Century.) 

TRAGEDY. — "That  form  of  the  drama  which  represents  a  somber 
or  a  pathetic  character  involved  in  a  situation  of  extremity  or  despera- 
tion by  the  force  of  an  unhappy  passion."  (Century.)  The  spectacle 
of  an  inadequate  struggle  against  an  invincible  and  relentless  antago- 
nist or  overwhelming  force.  In  tragedy  the  plot  is  subsidiary  to  the 
characterization. 


The  art — the  great  and  fascinating  and  most  difficult  art — of  the 
modern  dramatist  is  nothing  else  than  to  achieve  that  compression 
of  life  which  the  stage  undoubtedly  demands  without  falsification. 
If  Stevenson  had  ever  mastered  that  art — and  I  do  not  question  that 
if  he  had  properly  conceived  it  he  had  it  in  him  to  master  it — he  might 
have  found  the  stage  a  gold  mine,  but  he  would  have  found,  too,  that 
it  is  a  gold  mine  which  cannot  be  worked  in  a  smiling,  sportive,  half- 
contemptuous  spirit,  but  only  in  the  sweat  of  the  brain,  and  with 
every  mental  nerve  and  sinew  strained  to  its  uttermost.  He  would 
have  known  that  no  ingots  are  to  be  got  out  of  this  mine,  save  after 
sleepless  nights,  days  of  gloom  and  discouragement,  and  other  days, 
again,  of  feverish  toil,  the  result  of  which  proves  in  the  end  to  be 
misapplied  and  has  to  be  thrown  to  the  winds.  When  you  sit  in  your 
stall  at  the  theatre  and  see  a  play  moving  across  the  stage,  it  all  seems 
so  easy  and  natural,  you  feel  as  though  the  author  had  improvised  it. 
The  characters,  being,  let  us  hope,  ordinary  human  beings,  say  noth- 
ing very  remarkable,  nothing,  you  think, — thereby  paying  the  author 
the  highest  possible  compliment, — that  might  not  quite  well  have 
occurred  to  you.  When  you  take  up  a  playbook  (if  ever  you  do  take 
one  up)  it  strikes  you  as  being  a  very  trifling  thing — a  mere  insub- 
stantial pamphlet  beside  the  imposing  bulk  of  the  latest  six-shilling 
novel.  Little  do  you  guess  that  every  page  of  the  play  has  cost  more 
care,  severer  mental  tension,  if  not  more  actual  manual  labor,  than 
any  chapter  of  a  novel,  though  it  be  fifty  pages  long.  It  is  the  height 
of  the  author's  art,  according  to  the  old  maxim,  that  the  ordinary 
spectator  should  never  be  clearly  conscious  of  the  skill  and  travail 
that  have  gone  to  the  making  of  the  finished  product.  But  the  artist 
who  would  achieve  a  like  feat  must  realize  its  difficulties,  or  what  are 
his  chances  of  success? — ARTHUR  WING  PINESO,  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son: The  Dramatist,  in  the  Critic,  1903. 


CHAPTER  I 


THE   PLAY  AND   ITS   WHITER 

Let  us  ask  this  direct  question  of  every  man  and  woman  who 
reads  these  pages:  Have  you  taken  any  pains  to  satisfy  yourself 
that  you  possess  this  Inborn  Talent?  If  not,  do  so  without  delay, 
before  you  scatter  futile  ink  over  another  sheet  of  wasted  paper. 
And  it  is  not  a  question  of  having  or  not  having  the  creative 
instinct,  but  of  having  it  in  sufficient  degree  to  make  its  develop- 
ment really  worth  while.  For  the  Inborn  Talent  in  a  writer 
may  be  compared  to  the  grade  of  ore  in  a  mine — the  question 
is  not  simply  whether  there  is  any  precious  metal  there  at  all, 
but  whether  it  is  present  in  paying  quantities.  It  is  well  to  find 
out,  if  you  can,  just  how  richly  your  talent  will  assay,  and  then 
work  it  accordingly. — FREDERIC  TABER  COOPER,  The  Crafts- 
manship of  Writing. 

I  would  not  willingly  say  one  word  which  might  discourage 
those  who  are  attracted  to  this  branch  of  literature;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  would  encourage  them  in  every  possible  way.  One  de- 
sires, however,  that  they  should  approach  their  work  at  the  out- 
set with  the  same  serious  and  earnest  appreciation  of  its  im- 
portance and  its  difficulties  with  which  they  undertake  the  study 
of  music  and  painting.  I  would  wish,  in  short,  that  from  the 
very  beginning  their  minds  should  be  fully  possessed  with  the 
knowledge  that  Fiction  [of  which  genus  the  drama  is,  of  course, 
a  species]  is  an  Art,  and  that,  like  all  other  arts,  it  is  governed 
by  certain  laws,  methods,  and  rules,  which  it  is  their  first  business 
to  learn.— SIR  WALTER  BESANT,  The  Art  of  Fiction. 

"A  play,"  declares  Mr.  H.  Granville  Barker,  "is  any- 
thing that  can  be  made  effective  upon  the  stage  of  a  theatre 
by  human  agency.  And  I  am  not  sure,"  he  adds,  in  revolu- 


2  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

tionary  good  measure,  "that  this  definition  is  not  too 
narrow." 

To  most  people,  however,  the  definition  that  is  pos- 
sibly too  narrow  would  seem  amply  comprehensive. 
At  any  rate,  in  spite  even  of  Mr.  Barker's  earnest 
efforts  to  prove  his  proposition  by  means  of  homemade 
examples,  the  playgoing  public  continues  to  differentiate, 
if  somewhat  hazily,  between  "a  play"  and  mere  wise, 
verbose,  or  witty  dialogues,  or  simple  galleries  of  passive 
types. 

After  all,  even  if  Aristotle,  being  human  and  not 
omniscient,  did  err  in  the  matter  of  the  ten  pounds  of 
lead,  which  Galileo  proved  would  not  fall  a  whit  faster 
than  a  single  pound  of  the  same  metal,  still  the  Stagyrite 
was  and  remains  fairly  sound  in  the  less  scientific,  more 
aesthetic  matter  of  the  drama,  in  which  he  was  naturally 
somewhat  more  adept.  Moreover  Mr.  Barker — and 
others — have  not  succeeded  in  demolishing  the  Aristo- 
telian view  with  quite  the  same  degree  of  success  that 
attended  Galileo's  experimentation. 

Fundamentals  of  the  Drama 

Aristotle,  then,  in  discussing  the  nature  of  a  play, 
insisted  primarily  upon  plot.  "Drama"  etymologically 
indicates  action;  and  the  action  in  a  play  must,  first  of 
all,  tell  a  story.  This  includes  a  unified  sequence  of 
events,  having  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  and  is 
represented  by  means  of  individuals  imitating  the  person- 
ages taking  part  in  the  story. 


THE  PLAY  AND  ITS   WRITER  3 

Story  and  people,  therefore,  are  two  fundamental  ele- 
ments of  a  play.  They  depend  upon  each  other — in  fact, 
the  delicacy  and  the  harmony  of  their  inter-relations 
present  the  main  problem  of  the  dramatist.  For  it  should 
be  noted  that  neither  element  alone  is  sufficient.  Story, 
indeed,  cannot  exist  without  people,  or  at  least  symbols 
of  people;  while  people  merely,  not  involved  in  any  story, 
cannot  constitute  a  play.  "Drama,"  says  Professor  A. 
W.  Ward,  "is  not  reached  till  the  imitation  or  representa- 
tion extends  to  action." 

As  without  a  plot  there  can  be  no  drama,  so  without  a 
procedure  from  cause  to  effect  there  can  be  no  plot.  The 
third  fundamental  to  be  remembered,  then,  is  logic.  It 
applies  not  only  to  the  element  of  story,  but  also  to  the 
element  of  people,  in  their  characterization.  In  fact, 
logic  is,  in  a  sense,  the  binding  principle  which  cements 
the  plot  and  the  people  in  a  play.  Another  name  for  this 
principle  is  "probability;"  still  another,  "consistency;" 
neither  of  these  terms,  however,  is  so  satisfying,  because 
not  so  inclusive,  as  "logic." 

The  Endowments  of  the  Playwright 

The  aspiring  playwright  should  first  introspectively 
consult  his  creative  equipment  for  the  purpose  of  dis- 
covering whether  it  includes  aptitudes  in  line  with  the 
three  essentials  of  the  drama  so  far  mentioned.  Is  he 
gifted  with  the  ability  to  imagine  stories?  Is  he  not  only 
something  of  a  born  plot-maker,  but  also  a  sound,  if 
intuitive,  psychologist?  Has  he  that  power  of  observa- 


4  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

tion  which  enables  him  unerringly  to  single  out  and  to 
classify  the  traits,  regular  and  eccentric,  of  human  nature? 
And,  finally,  is  he  endowed  with  a  relentlessly  logical 
thinking  apparatus,  which  will  never  allow  itself  to  be 
thrown  out  of  gear  or  off  the  track,  no  matter  how  much 
pressure  may  be  brought  to  bear  upon  it  by  the  power  of 
mental  habit  or  the  tyranny  of  precedent? 

The  probably  successful  playwright  must  have  this 
triple  gift.  He  needs  to  be,  in  fact,  a  combination  of  the 
scientific  and  the  artistic  type  of  mind.  The  science  of 
humanity  is  the  foundation  of  the  art  of  the  drama,  and 
it  is  in  both  fields  that  the  dramatist  must  be  an  expert. 

Manifestly,  not  all  men  and  women  can  be  made  into 
playwrights.  Life  is  infinitely  too  short.  Writers  for  the 
stage  must  be  born  saturated  with  drama,  oozing  drama 
from  their  finger-tips,  living  their  lives  largely  in  an  imag- 
inative realm  of  the  mimetic,  thinking  in  terms  of  drama, 
seeing  all  life,  indeed,  from  the  special  angle  of  its 
effective  theatrical  representation. 

Sarcey1  quotes  Sardou  as  insisting  on  the  fact  that  "the 
true  character,  the  distinctive  sign,  of  the  man  born  for 
the  theatre,  is  to  see  nothing,  to  hear  nothing,  which  does 
not  immediately  take  on,  for  him,  the  theatrical  aspect: 
"  'This  landscape  he  admires,  what  a  beautiful  setting! 
This  charming  conversation  he  listens  to,  what  pretty 
dialogue!  This  delicious  young  girl  that  passes,  how 
adorable  an  ingenue!  Finally,  this  misfortune,  this 
crime,  this  disaster  one  describes  to  him,  what  a  situation! 
what  a  scene!  what  drama!  The  special  faculty  of  drama- 

1  Quarante  Ans  de  Theatre. 


THE   PLAY  AND  ITS   WRITER  5 

tizing  everything  constitutes  the  power  of  the  dramatic 
author.'  .  .  .  Unfortunately,  it  must  be  at  once  admitted 
that  this  thing  is  not  easy  or  common.  We  are  forever 
passing  by  dramatic  incidents  and  situations  which  do 
not  strike  us  at  all,  because  they  are  affairs  of  ordinary 
life;  but  which  others,  gifted  with  a  special  vision,  per- 
ceive, and  from  which  they  extract  the  drama  we  never 
even  suspected 

"To  see  a  true  thing  and  to  feel  that  it  would  be  effective 
on  the  stage,  that  is  the  first  part  of  this  special  gift 
Sardou  talks  about;  to  imagine  the  dramatic  form  which 
would  reveal  this  true  thing,  that  is,  to  find  a  means  of 
giving  it  verisimilitude  in  the  eyes  of  twelve  hundred 
people  assembled  before  the  footlights,  is  the  second  and 
last  part  which  makes  up  the  whole.  And  there  is  nothing 
rarer  in  the  world  than  this  gift." 

In  insisting  on  this  element  of  congenital  endowment 
as  being  necessarily  fundamental  to  all  training  in  play- 
making,  we  might  go  further  and  say  that  the  successful 
dramatist,  even  our  latter-day  species,  must  be  a  poet, 
So,  indeed,  he  was  usually  named  a  century  or  two  ago, 
not  because  he  wrote  in  verse,  but  because  he  dealt  in  an 
art-form  closely  related  to  poetry  pure  and  simple.  The 
drama  aims  primarily  at  the  emotions.  A  story  acted  out 
by  characters,  however  logical  it  may  be,  if  it  fails  to 
arouse  the  feelings  of  the  audience,  is  not  a  play.  Drama 
to-day  is  oftenest  written  in  prose;  but,  if  it  is  to  succeed,  it 
does  not  confine  itself  to  a  purely  intellectual  appeal. 
Rather  are  we  accustomed  to  believe  that  drama  rises 
above  mere  spoken  dialogue  and  pantomime  to  its  own 


6  THE  TECHNIQUE  OP  PLAY  WRITING 

peculiar  plane  solely  when  it  produces  a  distinct  emotion- 
al reaction. 

This,  then,  is  drama,  reduced  to  its  elements:  A  unified 
and  logical  story  told  in  action  by  its  own  characters  and 
making  a  sustained  emotional  appeal.  Its  proper  con- 
struction requires  a  certain  innate  poetic  ability  specialized 
in  the  direction  of  what  is  effective  for  the  stage — the 
expression  of  life  in  terms  of  concrete  action,  the  visualiza- 
tion of  truth.  Without  the  power  to  embody  the  abstract, 
without  a  mentality  combining  the  clearest  thinking  with 
the  deepest  feeling,  the  aspirant  to  honors  in  writing 
plays  will  probably  fall  short  even  of  mediocrity. 

Underlying  and  infusing  all  worthy  dramatic  writing  is 
the  individualized  and  emphatic  personality  of  the 
dramatist.  Personality  is,  after  all,  the  prime  requisite. 
Are  you  a  man  or  a  woman  gifted  with  a  mental,  moral, 
and  spiritual  constitution  that  sufficiently  differentiates 
you  from  the  mass  of  humanity  to  make  your  viewpoint, 
your  utterances,  your  creative  endeavors  of  whatsoever 
sort,  inherently  attractive  merely  because  they  have  in 
them  the  flavor  of  yourself?  If  so,  you  may  safely  begin  to 
take  stock  of  your  other  native  endowments  with  a  view 
to  determining  your  fitness  to  write  plays.  The  ability 
to  effect  mere  rearrangements  of  antiquated  situations 
and  characters  is  far  from  sufficient.  Ibsen,  Brieux, 
Pinero,  Shaw,  Rostand,  Maeterlinck,  Barrie — these  are 
personalities  constantly  revealing  themselves  through  the 
mimic  world  they  create.  There  is  no  set  formula  for  the 
process.  The  style  is  the  man,  and  it  can  be  neither  mis- 
taken nor  imitated.  What  the  men  and  women  on  the 


THE  PLAY  AND  ITS   WRITER  7 

stage  say  and  do,  or  refrain  from  saying  and  doing,  in 
some  mysterious  manner  reveals  the  sympathies  and 
antipathies,  the  tastes,  the  foibles,  and  the  ideals  of  their 
creator;  and  him  we  like,  abhor,  or  are  indifferent  to, 
according  as  he  is  strong  and  sincere,  feeble  and  disingen- 
uous, or  commonplace  and  dull. 

Endowment  Plus  Preparation 

If,  however,  the  self-consulting  aspirant  thinks  he  finds 
the  necessary  endowment  present — in  germ,  as  is  most 
likely,  rather  than  in  total  development — there  will  still 
remain  by  way  of  preparation  the  mastering  of  a  consid- 
erable number  of  time-tried  technical  processes.  The 
drama,  like  all  other  arts  or  crafts,  has  its  body  of  doctrine 
gained  from  experimentation.  One  must  know  as  many 
facts  about  ways  and  means  before  broaching  the  con- 
struction of  a  play,  at  least  as  one  must  know,  for  instance, 
before  beginning  to  build  a  house. 

To  set  forth  as  simply  and  concretely  as  possible  these 
basic  tenets  of  the  art  of  dramatic  composition  will  be  the 
aim  of  the  chapters  to  follow. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Formulate  your  own  definition  for  the  drama. 

2.  Quote    as    many    definitions    as    you    can  from 
authorities. 

3.  Make  a  list  of  the  elements  generally  agreed  on. 

4.  What  elements  in  these  definitions  seem  to  you  to 
be  not  properly  included? 


8  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

5.  Are  one's  native  mental  and  emotional  endowments 
generally  in  plain  evidence   at   the   age,   say,   of  from 
twenty-five  to  thirty? 

6.  What  sort  of  experiences  and  exercises  are  likely  to 
reveal  to  oneself  his  own  native  gifts? 

7.  Compare  the  necessity  for  native  gifts  in  the  play- 
wright and  in  the  painter;  in  the  poet;  in  the  novelist. 

8.  Restate  in  your  own  words  the  qualities  that  the 
present  author  holds  must  be  inborn  in  the  truly  success- 
ful playwright. 

9.  Would  you  add  to  or  subtract  from  this  list?    Why? 
10.  What  relation  does  intelligent  study  bear  to  native 

endowment? 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   THEME 

Beginning  with  the  "  Fils  naturel"  he  [Dumas  Jtts]  engaged  in 
the  development  of  social  theories.  To  paint  characters,  ridi- 
cules, and  passions  was  not  enough.  He  wished  to  leave  with 
the  spectators  "something  to  think  over,"  to  make  them  hear 
"things  good  to  be  said." — GEORGES  PELLISSIER,  Le  Mouvement 
Litteraire  au  XIX  •  Siecle. 

The  truth  is  that  plays  of  ideas  must,  first  of  all,  be  plays  of 
emotion.  "Primum  vivere,  deinde  philosophari. "  The  "idea" 
is  excellent,  as  giving  a  meaning  and  unity  to  the  play,  but  if 
it  be  allowed  to  obtrude  itself  so  as  to  impair  the  sense  of  reality, 
the  flow  of  emotion  is  immediately  arrested.  Emotion,  not  logic, 
is  the  stuff  of  drama.  A  play  that  stirs  our  emotions  may  be 
absolutely  "unidea'd. "  That  is  a  case  of  emotion  for  emotion's 
sake — the  typical  case  of  melodrama.  The  play  really  great 
is  the  play  which  first  stirs  our  emotions  profoundly  and  then 
gives  a  meaning  and  direction  to  our  feelings  by  the  unity  and 
truth  of  some  underlying  idea. — A.  B.  WALKLEY,  Drama  and  L*'fe. 

Directions  for  writing  plays  usually  commence  with  the 
choice  of  a  theme,  and  properly  so;  for,  theoretically,  a 
drama  is  supposed  to  be  the  development  of  an  abstract 
truth,  which  is  its  germ,  which  may  be  summed  up  in  a 
sentence  or  two,  and  which  is  thought  out  in  advance  of 
any  actual  composition. 

The  theme  of  "Macbeth,"  for  instance,  may  be  thus 
stated: 

A  man  of  high  position  is  led  to  commit  a  great  crime 
to  attain  his  ambition. 


10  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

To  maintain  his  position  he  is  led  to  other  crimes. 

Finally,  gaining  no  enjoyment  from  the  attainment  of 
his  ambition,  he  is  put  to  death  by  forces  aroused  by  his 
own  crimes. 

Or  the  theme  of  "Hamlet"  may  be  somewhat  more 
elaborately  couched  as  follows: 

Hamlet,  a  student  and  a  dreamer,  has  been  made  aware 
of  his  father's  murder  and  his  mother's  seduction  by  his 
uncle,  now  king.  This  he  has  learned  from  the  ghost  of 
his  father,  who  incites  him  to  revenge.  Hamlet  is  hesitant, 
dilatory,  incredulous:  he  loses  time  while  he  devises  a  test 
of  the  worth  of  the  ghost's  word,  and  again  for  fear  of 
sending  his  enemy's  soul  to  heaven  by  killing  him  while 
he  is  at  prayer. 

His  inactivity  results  in  his  killing  by  mistake  an  inno- 
cent man,  and  thus  maddening  that  man's  daughter, 
Hamlet's  sweetheart.  His  purpose  almost  blunted,  he 
departs,  returns,  and,  finally  in  killing  his  enemy,  is  him- 
self involved  in  a  general  destruction  which  his  own 
hesitancy  has  brought  about. 

Or,  much  more  briefly,  the  matter  might  be  phrased  as 
a  thesis  thus: 

Placed  in  a  position  demanding  heroic  action,  a  dreamer, 
though  of  superb  mentality,  can  only  involve  himself  and 
others  in  ruin. 

The  Thesis  as  a  Theme 

Between  these  two  ways  of  stating  the  Hamlet  theme  we 
find  a  distinction  that  is  worth  noting:  the  former  is 
chiefly  a  compression  of  the  plot,  with  a  hint  of  the  truth 


THE   THEME  II 

that  underlies  it;  the  latter  is  the  precise  formulation  of 
the  argument,  or  thesis,  which  the  story  works  out  by  way 
of  illustration.  Most  of  the  great  serious  plays  may  be 
shown  to  support  such  theses,  though  not  necessarily  to 
have  started  out  with  that  chief  purpose — of  which  more 
later. 

A  further  distinction  must  be  pointed  out  between  both 
of  the  foregoing  theme-types  and  the  kind  that  sets  forth 
certain  facts  of  life  in  a  sort  of  unprejudiced,  reportorial 
way,  without  formulating  a  thesis — as  in  certain  obvious 
instances  presently  to  be  cited. 

Theoretically  we  should  conceive  of  Shakespeare  as 
having  first  selected  a  thesis  and  afterward  casting  about 
him  for  a  fable,  or  story,  and  a  set  of  characters,  that 
would  give  the  idea  suitable  and  adequate  dramatic  illus- 
tration. Similarly,  Mr.  George  Bernard  Shaw  would 
begin  "Man  and  Superman"  by  reflecting  on  the  para- 
doxical notion  that  woman  is  really  the  pursuer  in  love; 
Mr.  Augustus  Thomas  would  start  to  work  on  "The 
Witching  Hour"  after  due  consideration  of  the  dynamic 
power  of  thought;  Henrik  Ibsen  would  preface  the  writing 
of  "Ghosts"  by  recalling  the  fact  that  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  are  visited  on  the  children;  and  Messrs.  Arnold 
Bennett  and  Edward  Knoblauch  would  deliberately  select 
as  the  underlying  idea  for  "Milestones"  the  conflict  of 
the  radicalism  of  youth  with  the  conservatism  of  age. 

But  I  do  not  know  whether  these  latter-day  writers 
actually  thus  set  to  work.  Shakespeare,  as  scores  of 
critics  have  pointed  out,  began  "Macbeth"  and  "Hamlet" 
by  in  each  instance  taking  an  old  story  ready-made  and 


12  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

then  altering  and  rearranging  its  incidents  and  characters. 
Possibly  this  process  was  carried  out,  too,  with  little 
definite  conception,  or  at  least  with  no  definite  phrasing, 
of  a  central  thought  as  theme.  Most  serious  playwrights, 
upon  analysis,  do  turn  out  to  have  themes;  but  it  may  be 
that  they  generally  have  them  as  children  have  parents — 
without  much  previous  selection.  So  we  must  not  insist 
too  firmly  on  this  theory. 

"I  will  not  say  that  it  is  a  fault  when  the  dramatic  poet 
arranges  his  fable  in  such  a  manner  that  it  serves  for  the 
exposition  or  confirmation  of  some  great  moral  truth. 
But  I  may  say  that  this  arrangement  of  the  fable  is  any- 
thing but  needful;  that  there  are  very  instructive  and 
perfect  plays  that  do  not  aim  at  such  a  single  maxim,  and 
that  we  err  when  we  regard  the  moral  sentence  such  as  is 
found  at  the  close  of  many  ancient  tragedies,  as  the  key- 
note for  the  existence  of  the  entire  play."1 

In  writing  "The  Witching  Hour,"  as  has  just  been  sug- 
gested, Mr.  Augustus  Thomas  doubtless  began  with  the 
conviction  as  thesis  that  the  stronger  and  more  whole- 
some thought  vanquishes  the  weaker  and  less  healthful. 
In  "Arizona,"  however,  which  is  essentially  a  story-play, 
he  did  not  require  so  clear  and  concrete  a  germ  idea. 
And  if  in  "As  a  Man  Thinks"  he  purposed  to  illustrate 
the  poison  of  hatred  and  its  antidote  forgiveness,  it  is 
obvious  that  he  added  thereto  certain  ancillary  themes, 
such  as  the  modern  relations  of  Jew  and  Gentile,  and  the 
double  standard  of  morals  for  the  sexes.  This  last  in  a 
sense  amounts  to  a  specific  denial  that  this  is,  after  all, 
a  man's  world — a  sort  of  reversal  of  Ibsen's  theme  in 
"A  Doll's  House." 

1  Leasing,  Dramatic  Notes. 


THE   THEME  13 

But  which  comes  first,  abstract  notion  or  concrete 
incident?  The  question  is  of  minor  importance:  what 
matters  is  that  the  idea  be  properly  embodied  in  the 
event.  Note  the  case  of  "A  Doll's  House."  Its  basic 
thought  the  author  himself  thus  worded: 

"A  woman  cannot  be  herself  in  the  society  of  the 
present  day,  which  is  an  exclusively  masculine  society, 
with  laws  framed  by  men  and  with  a  judicial  system 
that  judges  feminine  conduct  from  a  masculine  point 
of  view."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  it  appears 
that  Ibsen's  real  starting-point  was  the  account  of  a 
woman's  forgery;  though  the  circumstances  and  the  cause 
of  her  action  doubtless  led  to  the  formulation,  by  an 
inductive  process,  of  the  drama's  thesis. 

Absence  of  Thesis  in  Some  Forms  of  Drama 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  quite  apparent  that  Mr.  Paul 
Armstrong  had  no  definite  thesis  in  mind  when  he  dashed 
off  "Alias  Jimmy  Valentine"  in  the  course — it  is  said — 
of  a  single  week;  nor  had  Mr.  Graham  Moffat,  when  he 
wrote  "A  Scrape  o'  the  Pen."  The  former  work  was,  of 
course,  merely  the  adaptation  and  expansion  of  a  story 
by  O.  Henry;  the  latter  a  picture  of  humble  Scotch  life 
and  character. 

Plays  are  sometimes  roughly  divided  into  three  classes: 
story-plays,  character-plays,  and  plays  of  ideas.  It  seems 
obvious  that  a  writer  may  set  out  to  tell  a  story,  or  to 
exhibit  characters  in  action,  without  laying  down  for  his 
work  any  fundamental  thesis.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  only 
story-plays  and  character-plays  that  actually  grow  out  of 


14  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

a  preconceived  theme  are  those  that  are  also  in  a  measure 
plays  of  ideas.  Farce  and  melodrama — "The  Deep 
Purple,"  "Within  the  Law,"  "Kick  In,"  "Twin  Beds," 
"Over  Night,"  "Seven  Days,"  "Hernani,"  "Virginius," 
"The  Whip,"  "The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest," 
"Officer  666,"  "The  Dictator  "—scarcely  need  any  ante- 
cedent themes  other  than  the  purpose  to  amuse  or  to 
thrill. 

Other  Play-Bases  than  the  Set  Theme 

The  playwright,  then,  may  start  his  play  with  a  basic 
idea — the  vaulting  ambition  of  Macbeth  or  the  unpracti- 
calness  of  Hamlet — and  often  such  is  his  method. 
However,  it  is  equally  feasible  that  he  should  begin 
merely  with  an  incident  noted  in  real  life  or  described 
in  a  periodical.  Mr.  Charles  Kenyon  is  said  to  have 
found  the  entire  plot  of  "Kindling"  ready-made,  in  a 
single  newspaper  clipping.  Less  fortunate  story-play 
writers  will  perhaps  combine  various  incidents  similarly 
gleaned,  with  figures  eclectically  assembled.  As  for  the 
writers  of  character-plays,  they  will  gather  their  men  and 
women  where  they  can  and  set  them  forth  on  the  boards, 
often  also  without  having  connected  them  with  any 
abstraction  to  be  illustrated. 

How  Some  Plays  Were  Born 

"One  blindingly  foggy  night  in  London,"  we  are  told, 
"Messrs.  Haddon  Chambers  and  Paul  Arthur  were 
trudging  from  the  theatre  to  the  former's  lodgings.  Sud- 
denly out  of  the  impenetrable  mist  loomed  what  Mr. 


THE  THEME  15 

Chambers  calls  a  'smear,'  'a  stain  on  humanity,'  a  typical 
London  tramp,  one  who  neither  sows  nor  spins.  Mr. 
Chambers  and  the  tramp  collided,  but  the  latter  was 
quick  with  apologies  well  worded  and  gently  spoken.  The 
man,  whose  name  was  Burns,  interested  Mr.  Chambers, 
who  finally  invited  him  home,  along  with  his  friend  Mr. 
Arthur,  for  a  bite  of  supper.  Without  realizing  it,  the 
playwright  had  received  the  stimulus  which  was  to  result 
in  'Passers-By.'  " 

Almost  anything,  apparently,  may  suggest  a  play.  Mr. 
Hubert  Henry  Davies,  it  is  said,  wishful  of  success  in  the 
drama,  suddenly  reflected  that  there  are  many  admirable 
actresses  past  their  prime  of  beauty,  who  need  only  good 
plays  to  demonstrate  that  they  still  have  talent.  There- 
upon he  set  about  the  writing  of  such  a  vehicle  and  pro- 
duced "Mrs.  Goringe's  Necklace." 

Once  upon  a  time,  we  learn,  a  man  assaulted  Mr.  Charles 
Klein,  who  threatened  his  arrest.  The  assailant  defied 
him,  openly  relying  upon  his  influence  at  the  office  of  the 
public  prosecutor.  This  intimated  corruption  suggested 
the  play,  "The  District  Attorney."  Magazine  and  news- 
paper reports  of  Congressional  proceedings  and  of  monop- 
oly methods  are  said  to  have  furnished  the  inspiration  for 
"The  Lion  and  the  Mouse."  The  phrase  "the  one-man 
power"  was  what  first  drew  the  playwright's  attention. 
"I  wrote  the  play,"  he  explains,  "to  show  the  terrible 
possibility  for  evil  of  unlicensed  money-power."  A  remark 
by  a  well-known  psychologist,  that  a  man  might  be  forced 
through  suggestion  to  confess  a  crime  of  which  he  was 
innocent,  combined  with  the  idea  of  police  graft  to  inspire 
"The  Third  Degree." 


1 6  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

"The  ideas  of  my  plays,"  Sir  Arthur  Wing  Pinero  is 
quoted  as  having  explained,  "are  born — I  do  not  know 
how.  They  come  to  me  most  readily  when  there  is  plenty 
of  activity  and  excitement  around  me.  They  are  sug- 
gested by  my  observation  of  simple,  everyday  things — 
perhaps  a  mere  incident  will  become  the  cornerstone  of  a 
dramatic  theme." 

Though  he  had  often  travelled  in  the  far  Southwest, 
William  Vaughn  Moody  did  not  there  acquire  the  idea  of 
"The  Great  Divide."  Instead,  the  story  came  to  him  in 
a  Chicago  drawing-room,  where  a  friend  was  relating  the 
episode  of  a  Sabine  union  that  had  actually  occurred  in 
the  wilderness.  This  gave  Moody  his  now  celebrated  first 
act — originally,  by  the  way,  Act  II — from  which  he 
developed  his  psychological  melodrama. 

Certainly  this  sort  of  play  origin  is  very  different  from 
the  method  of  logical  formulae.  The  four  most  important 
figures  in  Victor  Hugo's  "Ruy  Bias,"  for  example,  "repre- 
sent the  principal  features  observed  by  the  philosopher- 
historian  in  contemplating  the  Spanish  monarchy  of  a 
hundred  and  forty  years  ago."  The  idea  underlying 
"Le  Roi  s'amuse"  is  that  paternal  love  will  transform  a 
creature  utterly  degraded  by  physical  inferiority.  The 
idea  of  "Lucrtce  Borgia"  is  that  maternal  love  purifies  even 
moral  deformity. 

Monsieur  Pellissier  points  out  that  this  rational  view  of 
the  subject  leads  naturally  to  the  abstract.  "All  the 
activity  of  the  personages  has  as  its  preconceived  goal  the 
realization  of  an  'idea,'  a  'thought'  of  the  playwright. 
We  have  what  is  no  longer  the  development  of  characters, 


17 

but  merely  the  deduction  of  a  thesis."  And  after  Hugo 
comes  Alfred  de  Vigny,  ready  to  substitute  the  "drame  de 
la  pensee"  for  that  of  life  and  of  action.  Directly  opposed 
to  him,  however,  was  Dumas  the  elder,  with  his  gifts  of 
movement,  brilliancy,  and  color. 

At  all  events,  it  would  be  hard  to  determine  whether 
abstract  ideas  or  concrete  individuals  and  incidents  form 
the  starting-point  of  the  majority  of  plays.  Doubtless  in 
many  cases  it  is  impossible  for  even  the  dramatist  himself 
to  explain  exactly  how  his  play  took  rise.  Often  enough, 
indeed,  it  has  simply  been  "begot  in  the  ventricle  of 
memory,  nourished  in  the  womb  of  pia  mater,  and  delivered 
upon  the  mellowing  of  occasion." 

The  Value  of  Themes 

Meanwhile,  however,  it  appears  reasonable  that  a  play 
that  is  actually  developed  from  a  definite  theme  is  most 
likely  to  possess  both  the  unity  and  the  simplicity,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  freshness,  which  good  drama  requires. 
Purposeless  stories  in  and  from  real  life  are  apt  to  be 
digressive;  all  too  readily  they  absorb  incidents  and 
characters  that  distract  rather  than  concentrate  the 
attention.  Story  for  story's  sake  has  a  natural  tendency 
to  become  involved  and  intricate  beyond  the  bounds  of 
good  dramatic  art.  A  character-play  without  a  theme, 
too,  may  not  readily  find  any  satisfactory  unifying 
principle;  whereas  a  drama  that  deliberately  sets  out  to 
demonstrate  a  clear-cut  basic  idea  will  likely  be  held  by  its 
very  purpose  to  organic  oneness.  Moreover,  if  there  be 
any  possible  plot  novelty  nowadays,  it  will  probably  arise 


l8  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

from  the  sincere  and  vigorous  treatment  of  a  heartfelt 
conviction.  Playwrights  with  definite  themes,  it  is  true, 
often  enough  go  astray  into  the  easy  highroads  of  con- 
ventionality, but  they  are  much  better  safeguarded  against 
this  defection  than  are  the  mere  story-tellers  of  the  stage. 
It  is  certainly  preferable  for  a  play  to  be  about 
something. 

"The  'well-made'  play,"  says  Mr.  H.  T.  Parker,  "the 
play  of  artful  and  vigorous  mechanics,  from  Scribe  and 
Sardou  to  Bernstein  and  sometimes  Jones — is  indeed  a 
poor  thing,  with  its  personages  as  puppets  or  cogs,  with  its 
emotions  made  according  to  prescriptions  for  more  or  less 
assured  effects,  with  its  dialogue  as  a  kind  of  lubricating 
oil,  with  no  vitalizing  spirit  except  the  spirit  of  the  theatre 
as  an  exciting  show  place.  A  play  with  an  underlying  and 
informing  idea,  if  only  the  idea  be  significant,  is  a  better 
thing,  however  ineptly  the  idea  may  be  expressed  and 
developed  through  the  speech  and  the  action  on  the  stage. 
The  ideal  play,  as  the  ideals  of  the  contemporary  stage  go 
(when  it  is  lucky  enough  to  have  any)  is  the  play  that  is 
born  of  such  an  idea,  and  that  by  the  artistic  means  of  the 
theatre  brings  it  to  full  and  persuasive  impartment." 

Theme  Difficulties 

There  are  two  main  difficulties  with  regard  to  dramatic 
themes:  first,  new  ones  are  exceedingly  rare;  and,  second, 
once  chosen,  they  are  often  next  to  impossible  of  adequate 
illustration.  "The  New  Sin,"  for  example,  was  planned 
to  demonstrate  the  rather  novel  notion  that  the  right  to 
live  is  sometimes  nullified  by  the  duty  to  die.  However, 


THE   THEME  19 

the  fable  devised  is  insufficient  to  make  this  difficult  idea 
acceptable.  Again,  as  has  been  frequently  said,  in  Clyde 
Fitch's  "The  City,"  the  powerful  central  scene — the 
revelation  to  Hannock  of  his  marriage  to  his  own  half- 
sister — is  totally  disconnected  from  the  theme  of  the 
drama,  which  is  the  influence  of  urban  life  upon  character. 

In  the  case  of  Mr.  George  M.  Cohan's  ambitious  effort, 
"The  Miracle  Man,"  the  power  of  faith  for  physical  and 
moral  regeneration  is  obviously  the  thesis — much  as  it  was 
in  "The  Servant  in  the  House,"  and  "The  Passing  of  the 
Third  Floor  Back."  In  Mr.  Cohan's  play,  however, 
neither  plot  nor  characterization  is  sufficient  for  a  convinc- 
ing demonstration  of  the  thesis.  Similarly,  in  "What  Is 
Love?"  Mr.  George  Scarborough  signally  failed  to  illus- 
trate the  difference  between  the  real  and  the  false  founda- 
tion for  marriage.  In  this  case,  the  author  was  unsuccess- 
ful, it  is  true,  largely  because  his  own  conception  of  the 
theme  was  vague  and  abortive.  One  went  away  from  both 
"The  Miracle  Man "  and  "  What  Is  Love?  "  with  a  distinct 
feeling  that  the  playwright  had  undertaken  something  as 
yet  beyond  his  powers.  Excellent  themes  had  been  chosen, 
but  they  had  not  been  adequately  exemplified. 

Themes,  then,  though  not  indispensable  to  the  story-play 
— at  least,  not  in  the  sense  of  abstract  underlying  ideas — 
are  reasonably  presupposed  in  the  art  of  the  drama,  and  in 
many  plays  may  be  found  and  concisely  expressed  with 
little  difficulty.  Thus,  upon  analysis,  it  will  be  seen  that 
the  theme  of  "L'Aiglon"  repeats  that  of  "Hamlet,"  and 
that  the  fundamental  idea  of  "The  Master  Builder" 
resembles  that  of  "Macbeth."  In  "Kindling"  we  note 


20  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

how  children  have  a  right  to  be  well  born;  in  "The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray,"  how  hopeless  is  the  struggle  of  such  a 
woman  as  Paula  with  a  "past;"  in  "The  Blue  Bird," 
how  happiness,  which  men  are  prone  to  seek  far  afield, 
oftenest  lies  at  home;  in  "The  Pigeon,"  how  worse  than 
useless  is  misplaced  charity;  in  "Joseph  Entangled,"  how 
eagerly  people  will  put  the  worst  interpretation  on  inno- 
cent occurrences;  in  "The  Phantom  Rival,"  how  ill  a 
woman's  romantic  souvenirs  are  likely  to  accord  with 
reality;  in  "The  Well  of  the  Saints,"  how  much  more 
pleasant  are  illusions  than  grim  facts;  in  "The  Elder 
Brother,"  how  second  marriages  beget  family  quarrels; 
in  "The  Thunderbolt,"  how  prospective  legacies  intensify 
natural  depravity;  in  "Pygmalion,"  how  the  gap  between 
the  flower-girl  and  the  duchess  may  be  bridged  by  pho- 
netics— at  least,  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Shaw;  in 
"Outcast,"  how  serious  a  business  it  is  for  a  man  to 
regenerate  a  woman's  soul;  in  "What  Is  Love?"  how 
real  love,  as  Mr.  Scarborough  sees  it,  is  that  which  lends 
to  a  kiss  the  sensation  ordinarily  produced  by  drinking 
apple  toddy;  in  "The  Legend  of  Leonora,"  how  superior 
to  the  laws  and  logic  of  mere  man  is  charming  and  in- 
scrutable femininity;  in  "Magda,"  how  impossible  of 
adjustment  are  social  conservatism  and  radicalism;  in 
"Ruy  Bias,"  how  essential  nobility  may  shatter  itself 
against  the  barriers  of  caste;  in  "A  Woman  of  No  Import- 
ance," how  unjust  is  a  double  standard  of  morals  for  the 
sexes;  in  "Hindle  Wakes,"  how  poor  a  "reparation" 
marriage  may  be  for  a  wronged  girl;  in  "Polygamy,"  how 
dire  are  the  consequences  of  polygamy;  in  "Waste,"  how 


THE  THEME  21 

an  impulsive  violation  of  the  moral  code  may  result  in 
much  waste  of  power  and  life;  in  "Chains,"  how  com- 
pletely responsibility  chains  us  down  to  humdrum  monot- 
ony; in  "The  Blindness  of  Virtue,"  how  blind  is  ignorant 
virtue;  in  "You  Never  Can  Tell,"  how  you  never  can 
tell;  in  "It  Pays  to  Advertise,"  how  it  pays  to  advertise. 
I  am  aware  that  hasty  summaries  of  the  gists  of  plays 
lay  one  liable  to  much  scornful  criticism.  Dramas  often 
have  more  sides  than  one,  and  the  appraisal  of  underlying 
ideas  is  likely  to  vary.  It  remains,  however,  that  plays  do 
often  have  themes,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  usually 
cannot  determine  whether  the  themes  preceded  or  fol- 
lowed the  plots  in  point  of  time  or  were  cognate  with  them. 
But,  in  any  event,  as  critics  are  constantly  reiterating,  the 
beginner  at  play-writing  may  rest  confident  that  dramatic 
work  springing  from  a  definite  germ  of  thought  will  logi- 
cally stand  a  better  show  of  success  than  will  that  which  is 
accreted  indiscriminately  from  mere  scraps  of  story  and 
character  and  dialogue. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Point  out  the  difference  usually  found  between  a 
theme  and  a  title,  and  illustrate  from  two  modern  plays. 

2.  State  the  themes  of  three  modern  plays,  each  couched 
in  two  forms:  first  in  the  "plot"  manner  illustrated  on 
page  10,  and  second  in  the  thesis  manner,  on  page  13. 

3.  Give  an  instance  from  your  own  observation  in  which 
the  thesis-theme  is  imperfectly  sustained  or  illustrated 
by  the  action  of  the  play. 


22  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

4.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  weak  play  on  a  really  big  theme? 
Criticise  it  from  your  present  viewpoint. 

5.  Formulate  the  theme  of  any  one  of  Shakespeare's 
comedies. 

6.  State  the  thesis  of  any  one  of  Shakespeare's  tragedies. 

7.  In  your  opinion,  can  the  permanency  of  any  of  the 
world's  great  plays  be  in  large  measure  attributed  to  the 
greatness  of  its  theme? 

8.  What   factors   lend  permanency   of   interest   to   a 
theme?    Illustrate. 

9.  Cite  themes  from  popularly  successful  plays  that  in 
your  opinion  are  doomed  to  only  a  passing  interest  on 
account  of  their  themes.    Give  reasons. 

10.  Give  the  themes — in  any  form — of  six  modern  plays. 

11.  Express  in  the  form  of  a  proverb  the  theme  of  one 
modern  play. 

12.  Invent  theses  for  three  possible  plays.     Try  to 
avoid  triteness  in  expression. 

13.  Invent  three  subjects  for  plays,  but  do  not  use  the 
thesis  form  of  statement. 

14.  Criticise  any  of  the  theme  statements  on  page  20 
that  you  can  intelligently. 

15.  Tell  how  any  one  dramatic  theme  came  to  you 
personally. 

1 6.  What  habits  and  practices  would  seem  to  you  likely 
to  bring  about  a  mood  productive  of  theme  ideas? 

17.  Do  themes  occur  to  you  readily? 

1 8.  Does  it  encourage  originality  or  imitation  to  sit 
down  and  try  to  think  of  a  theme? 


THE   THEME  23 

19.  Relate  any  one  experience  in  life  that  has  come  to 
you  that  suggests  a  dramatic  theme. 

20.  Try  to  find  in  the  newspapers  a  theme  suitable  for 
a  play.    Clip  it  and  present  it  in  class. 

21.  The  foregoing  suggestion  may  prove  to  be  no  more 
than  a  theme  in  embryo.     If  so,  develop  the  germ  until 
it  is  expressed  clearly  and  fully  in  a  single  sentence. 

22.  What  short-stories  or  novels  recently  read  by  you 
disclose  themes  for  plays? 

23.  State  the  themes  of  from  three  to  five  of  these, 
briefly  but  fully. 

24.  Give  a  modern  example  of  a  play  on  a  trite  theme 
that  has  been  redeemed  by  fresh  treatment. 


CHAPTER  III     . 


THE    ELEMENTS 

One  other  law  is  no  less  essential:  it  is  that  which  indicates 
that  an  action  in  the  theatre  must  be  conducted  by  wills,  if  not 
always  free,  always  at  least  self-conscious.  .  .  .  This  law 
is  nothing  more  than  the  expression  ...  of  that  which  in  the 
very  definition  of  the  theatre  is  essential,  peculiar,  and,  to  re- 
peat, absolutely  specific.  .  .  .  That  which  peculiarly  belongs 
only  to  the  theatre,  that  which  through  all  literatures,  from  the 
Greek  to  our  own,  forms  the  permanent  and  continued  unity  of 
the  dramatic  species,  is  the  spectacle  of  a  will  which  unfolds 
itself; — and  that  is  why  action,  and  action  thus  defined,  will 
always  be  the  law  of  the  theatre. — FERDINAND  BRUNETI^RE,  Les 
Epoques  du  Thedtre  Fran$ais. 

It  is  sometimes  supposed  that  the  drama  consists  of  incident. 
It  consists  of  passion,  which  gives  the  actor  his  opportunity; 
and  that  passion  must  progressively  increase,  or  the  actor,  as 
the  piece  proceeded,  would  be  unable  to  carry  the  audience  from 
a  lower  to  a  higher  pitch  of  interest  and  emotion.  A  good  serious 
play  must  therefore  be  founded  on  one  of  the  passionate  cruces 
of  life,  where  duty  and  inclination  come  nobly  to  the  grapple. 
— ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON,  A  Humble  Remonstrance. 

Roughly  speaking,  all  plays  are  compounded  primarily 
of  plot,  characters,  and  dialogue.  Dialogue,  it  is  true,  is 
wholly  absent  in  the  case  of  pantomimes;  but  then  it  is  in 
a  sense  supplied  by  gesture  and  facial  expression,  much  as 
in  opera  it  is  supplied  by  song,  and  as  in  still  other  forms 
of  drama  it  appears  as  poetry  or  rhetoric.  These  ele- 
ments— fully  treated  later — must  now  be  viewed  broadly 
in  a  preliminary  way. 


THE  ELEMENTS  2$ 

Assuming  that  the  dramatist  has  chosen  his  theme,  he 
has  next  to  devise  a  plot,  or  story-framework,  and  char- 
acters that  will  be  adequate  to  its  expression.  The  charac- 
ters will  reveal  the  story  by  means  of  dialogue,  in  addition 
to  appearance,  physical  action,  and  pantomime.  The 
story,  being  for  the  stage,  will  have  to  be  emotionally 
exciting.  Moreover,  it  must  not  trespass  upon  the  truth 
of  the  characterization — too  far,  in  the  case  of  melodrama 
or  farce;  at  all,  in  the  case  of  comedy  or  tragedy.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  characterization  must  not  be  developed  at 
the  expense,  or  at  least  to  the  exclusion  of,  the  plot.  And 
the  dialogue,  always  including  pantomime,  must,  to  fulfill 
its  function,  both  reveal  character  and  advance  the  story 
from  line  to  line. 

Struggle  an  Essential  Plot  Element 

The  action  of  a  drama — meaning  the  doings  and  the 
sayings  of  the  characters  hi  a  unified  fable,  or  plotted 
story — most  readily  takes  on  the  emotional  quality 
through  the  portrayal  of  conflict.  It  has  generally  been 
asserted  that  the  essence  of  the  drama  is  a  struggle;1  and, 

1  Mr.  Archibald  Henderson,  in  an  article  in  The  Drama  (August, 
1914;  pages  441-442),  reiterates  the  observation  I  made  in  The 
Drama  To-day  that  a  play  appeals  as  does  a  fight — prize  fight, 
bull  fight,  cock  fight,  etc. — struggle  naturally  being  the  thing 
best  adapted  to  emotional  excitation.  Mr.  Brander  Matthews 
had  previously  quoted  the  assertion  of  Professor  Groos  that  "the 
pleasure  afforded  by  the  drama  has  one  very  essential  feature  in 
common  with  ring  contests,  animal  fights,  races,  etc., — namely, 
that  of  observing  a  struggle  in  which  we  may  inwardly  partici- 
pate." The  gist  of  the  matter,  of  course,  as  most  writers  on  the 


26  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

while  exceptions  have  been  taken  to  this  view,  they  are 
for  the  most  part  feeble  and  quibbling.  There  are  dramas 
without  struggle,  we  are  told,  but  this  is  true  only  in  a 
special  sense  of  the  word.  A  conflict  is  made  up  of  effort 
and  resistance,  even  though  that  resistance  may  be  as 
passive  as  that  of  a  mountain  resisting  the  climber.  With- 
out both  of  these  elements,  there  can  be  little,  if  any,  drama. 
How  can  there  be  a  play  of  any  important  appeal,  through 
which  a  protagonist  simply  wanders  without  purpose, 
meeting  with  no  obstacle,  human  or  otherwise?  How  can 
there  be  a  play  of  any  vital  consequence  in  which  the  hero 
proceeds  straight  forward  on  his  resolute  course,  with  no 
let  or  hindrance,  to  the  final  curtain? 

It  has  been  suggested  by  Mr.  William  Archer  that  it  is 
not  conflict  that  is  essential  to  drama,  but  rather  crisis. 
As  many  reviewers  have  promptly  seen,  this  is  scarcely  a 
satisfactory  substitution.  There  is  crisis  in  drama,  certain- 
ly, but  does  it  not  invariably  appear  as  the  real  or  supposed 
turning-point  in  some  sort  of  antagonism?  Of  plays  said  to 
contain  no  struggle,  we  are  cited  to  "  (Edipus  Rex,"  "  Othel- 
lo," "As  You  Like  It,"  "Ghosts,"  "Hamlet,"  "Lear,"  as 
examples.  Conflict  in  the  drama  does  not  necessarily 
mean  "a  stand-up  fight  between  will  and  will."  It  is  not 

1  Continued— 

drama  have  observed,  is  simply  that  every  good  play  is  at 
bottom  some  sort  of  fight. 

As  Mr.  Chester  S.  Lord,  of  the  New  York  Sun,  recently  pointed 
out  to  a  group  of  journalism  teachers,  the  same  principle  holds 
true  with  regard  to  the  newspaper.  "Were  you  to  ask  me  to 
name  the  kind  of  news  for  which  the  people  surge  and  struggle," 
he  said,  "  I  surely  must  reply  that  it  is  the  details  of  a  contest — 
a  fight,  whether  between  men  or  dogs  or  armies." 


THE  ELEMENTS  27 

even  essential  that  the  fight  should  be  a  resolute  knock- 
down affair:  all  men  are  not  constituted  to  wage  that  kind 
of  battle.  (Edipus  contends  as  best  he  may  against  the 
tremendous  antagonism  of  the  Fates.  Hamlet  hacks 
fitfully  at  the  opposing  circumstances  that  hem  him  in. 
Even  the  monotony-haunted  clerks  in  Miss  Elizabeth 
Baker's  "  Chains"  make  some  effort  to  break  their  shackles. 
And  it  has  been  pointed  out,  also,  that  Richard  Wilson's 
attempt  to  cut  loose  from  the  routine  that  is  gradually 
subjugating  his  soul  is  typical  of  the  underlying  conflict  of 
certain  great  forces  that  mark  our  modern  civilization — 
the  yearning  for  land  ownership  and  the  rebellion  against 
being  a  mere  cog  in  the  machine.  In  "As  You  Like  It" 
the  element  that  most  interests  us,  not  to  mention  various 
conflicts  with  wicked  relatives,  is  that  war  of  the  sexes 
and  of  wits  that  is  the  staple  of  high  comedy  today  as 
ever.  And  as  for  "Ghosts,"  what  more  fearful,  if  impo- 
tent, struggle  was  ever  waged  than  that  of  Mrs.  Alving, 
backed  up  by  conventional  morality  as  personified  in 
Pastor  Manders?  Her  great  antagonist  is  Natural  Law, 
the  modern  prototype  of  the  Fates,  here  masked  as  horrid 
and  relentless  Heredity.  Moreover,  the  play  as  a  whole 
exemplifies  the  terrific  battle  of  the  dead  present  with  the 
living  past.  What  underlies  true  tragedy,  after  all,  but  a 
helpless  grapple  with  the  overwhelming  forces  of  destiny? 
Hamlet,  Lear,  Othello,  (Edipus,  Agamemnon,  Brutus, 
Paula  Tanqueray,  all  are  involved  in  this  strife,  though  it 
be  not  a  hand-to-hand  combat  with  destiny  incarnate.1 

1  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  in  an  introduction,  dated  July, 
1914,  for  a  reprint  of  Brunetiere  on  the  law  of  the  drama,  I  find, 


28  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Moreover,  there  is  in  all  drama,  not  only  central,  but 
also  ancillary  conflict  in  many  phases.  "We  start  from  a 
state  of  calm  which  contains  in  it  the  elements  of  a  dra- 
matic conflict;  we  see  these  elements  rush  together  and 
effervesce;  and  we  watch  the  effervescence  die  back  again 
into  calm,  whether  it  be  that  of  triumph  or  disaster,  of 
serenity  or  despair."2 

It  appears  that  there  are  some  critical  playgoers  who  are 
as  insistent  on  stand-up-and-knock-down  battle  as  was 
Polonius  for  his  jig  or  his  tale  of  bawdry.  Without  a  sheer 
physical  fight,  like  him  they  sleep.  It  is  neither  a  necessary 
nor  a  probable  course,  however,  for  the  playwright  in 
every  instance  to  set  about  the  illustration  of  his  theme  by 
deliberately  choosing  two  antagonists  and,  Cadmus-like, 
putting  them  at  odds  with  each  other.  But  it  is  well  to 
remember  that  conflict  is  nearly  if  not  quite  the  first  state 
of  drama,  and  that  it  is  most  naturally  adapted  to  the 
excitation  of  emotion. 

Setting  the  Struggle  in  Array 

Mr.  Augustus  Thomas  is  quoted  in  a  newspaper  article 
as  thus  describing  the  process  by  which  a  play  takes  form: 

"There  must  be,  to  begin  with,  a  proponent  for  the  idea, 
a  character  who  believes  in  it,  who  preaches  it,  who  guides 

*  Continued — 

has  similarly  refuted  the  "crisis  theory."  What  here  appears 
on  the  subject  was  written  within  a  few  weeks  after  the  publica- 
tion of  Mr.  Archer's  "Play  Making"  in  1912.  Of  course,  the 
weakness  of  the  theory  is  perfectly  obvious,  and  it  can  be  shown 
in  no  other  way  than  to  point  out  the  struggle  in  the  examples 
cited. 
*  William  Archer,  in  The  Forum;  March,  1910. 


THE  ELEMENTS  3p 

his  life  by  it.  Next,  there  must  be  an  opponent.  He  is  to 
oppose  the  idea,  to  bring  about  the  conflict  upon  which 
drama  lives.  There  must  then  be  a  third  person,  a  person 
in  dispute,  as  it  were.  Not  so  much  a  person  for  whom  the 
first  two  are  struggling — such  as  the  heroine  of  melodrama, 
for  instance — more  a  character  whose  life  and  fortunes  are 
to  be  shaped,  heightened,  or  despoiled  according  as  the 
idea  of  the  play  conquers  or  falls.  Lastly,  there  must  be  a 
detached  character,  whom  we  might  call  the  Attorney  for 
the  People.  He  is  an  outsider,  a  doubter.  He  represents 
the  audience.  He  sees  the  struggles  of  the  proponent  and 
the  opponent.  Like  us  in  the  audience,  he  must  be 
affected  one  way  or  the  other,  for  or  against.  Often  this 
attorney  is  the  familiar  '  family  friend,'  a  fine  comedy  part, 
because  so  human,  so  real — just  like  the  audience  that  he 
represents." 

This  is,  indeed,  a  specific  formula.  One  will  probably 
not  agree  to  follow  it  so  closely  as  has  Mr.  Thomas  in 
certain  of  his  later  plays.  One  may  object,  for  example, 
to  the  raisonneur  out  of  Dumas  fils — the  Judge  Prentice, 
the  Lew  Ellinger,  or  the  Doctor  Seelig.  Nevertheless, 
roughly  speaking,  the  procedure  indicated  is  ;n  part 
at  least  the  one  usually  adopted.  Reflection  upon  the 
theme — or  whatever  else  may  serve  as  a  starting-point — 
will  presently  suggest  the  kind  of  men  and  women  by 
me,ans  of  whom  in  action  the  theme  may  be  visualized. 
Gradually  they  will  take  shape  and  be  delimited.  As  they 
are  mentally  revolved  and  molded,  the  conduct  possible 
to  them  in  the  realm  of  the  logical  will  appear.  Then  will 
come  the  effect  of  this  conduct  upon  their  fellows,  indi- 


30  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF   PLAY  WRITING 

vidually  and  in  the  mass.  Action  and  reaction  will  result 
in  inevitable  crisis  and  climax.  From  all  this  must  be 
chosen  what  seems  best  adapted  to  the  original  purpose 
and  what  does  no  violence  to  truth  by  producing  incon- 
sistency. After  selection,  proportion.  To  each  incident 
and  each  individual  the  appropriate  allotment  of  time  and 
space.  This  means,  of  course,  relative  importance,  which 
is,  in  turn,  a  matter  of  emphasis.  Thus  the  drama  slowly 
looms  forth,  chaotic  at  first,  then  vaguely  outlined,  and 
at  length  clear-cut  and  solid,  if  still  unpolished. 

Marshalling  the  Characters  for  the  Struggle 

An  illustration  may  be  of  service.  Suppose  that  the 
theme  chosen  is  that  vital  thesis  that  Wordsworth  em- 
bodied when  he  wrote, 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers." 

What  figures  and  what  fable  might  we  devise  to  give  this 
truth  dramatic  expression?  The  opportunities  are  large. 
We  will  start  with  a  worldling,  perhaps  recalling  an 
individual  of  our  own  acquaintance,  at  least  compound 
one  from  our  own  observations.  We  shall  want  to  portray 
him  in  his  attachment  to  the  mundane  and  to  show  the 
consequences  of  his  infatuation.  Is  our  protagonist  to  be 
man  or  woman?  Say,  a  man.  Is  he  young  or  old?  Per- 
haps old,  because  it  takes  time  for  chickens  to  come  home 
to  roost.  How  will  he  suffer?  We  look  about  us  for 
examples,  and  observe  that  it  is  often  in  their  children  that 
men  find  their  retribution.  Here,  then,  is  the  father  of, 


THE  ELEMENTS  3! 

say,  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter.  Through  them 
he  will  chiefly  pay  the  penalty  of  having  early  sold  himself 
to  the  devil  of  commercialism.  Three  figures  already. 
What  will  the  son  be  like?  What  the  daughter?  Is  their 
mother  yet  living?  If  so,  how  has  she  fared?  Let  us 
think  her  out  of  nothingness  into  being.  Perhaps  for  our 
purposes  we  decide  to  let  her  die,  or  rather  to  let  her  never 
have  existed.  What  then?  We  shall  need  other  charac- 
ters. Our  protagonist  suggests,  by  the  highly  effective 
dramatic  principle  of  contrast,  his  counterpart:  another 
man,  not  a  worldling.  Has  he  a  family?  Shall  we  carry  the 
balanced  structure  so  far?  There  is  some  danger  in  it. 
But  somehow  we  think  out  this  man  and  his  connections. 

So  the  process  goes.  The  children  of  the  protagonist 
suggest  their  husbands  or  wives,  their  lovers  or  sweet- 
hearts. A  lover  perhaps  suggests  a  rival.  Very  soon  we 
find  we  must  stop  to  consider  whether  the  as  yet  ghostly 
figures  that  have  been  evoked  are  all  likely  to  prove 
adapted,  or  which  of  them  may  prove  best  adapted,  to 
the  original  aim. 

Meanwhile,  the  plot  element  is  not  standing  still.  In- 
deed, we  can  make  little  headway  with  our  selection  of 
characters  without  taking  the  plot  into  account  and 
watching  it  evolve.  Our  protagonist,  for  example,  to 
show  himself  for  what  he  is — what  he  has  become  as  a 
result  of  his  worldliness — must  do  something.  He  must 
exhibit  an  attitude,  say  toward  his  children,  oppose  their 
wishes,  force  upon  them  his  own  plans,  and  so  involve 
himself  and  them  in  the  natural  consequences.  Each  will 
react  from  a  given  stimulus  in  harmony  with  the  prin- 


32  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

ciples  of  his  character.  Of  course,  human  nature  is 
unfathomably  complex.  That  is  why  Zola's  scientific, 
laboratory  method  for  its  study  is  impracticable.  But, 
after  all,  on  the  stage  as  in  all  fiction,  simplicity  must  be 
cultivated  in  the  treatment  of  character.  We  should  avoid 
the  old  exploded  "ruling  passion"  or  "humour"  plan — 
except  perhaps  in  farce  and  melodrama — and  aim  to  show 
figures  that  are  more  than  mere  personifications  of  single 
principles.  Our  people  should  be  sufficiently  rounded  to 
appear  human.  Yet,  if  they  be  developed  with  anything 
like  the  completeness  of  a  George  Eliot  treatment,  no  time 
will  be  left  for  the  fable.  Therefore  the  need  of  economy. 
Character  must  be  shown  in  swift  and  telling  strokes. 
Plot  must  be  unfolded  in  striking  and  vital  incident.  And 
the  two  processes  must  be  interwoven.  The  playwright 
cannot  be  always  alternating  between  characterizing 
speeches  and  plot-advancing  speeches.  He  must  seek,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  use  double-purpose  lines. 

Dialogue 

So,  then,  the  characters  having  been  developed  in  a 
completed  story,  there  is  still  to  be  considered  the  dialogue, 
including  pantomime.  And  this,  again,  of  course,  is  really 
no  separate  element  but  part  and  parcel  of  the  character 
revelation  and  the  story-telling.  In  fact,  they  two  have 
produced  the  dialogue  as  they  have  evolved. 

Dialogue  is  subject  to  the  same  principles  that  apply  to 
all  correlated  language:  unity,  selection,  proportion,  coher- 
ence, emphasis,  and  elegance  are  all  to  be  considered. 


THE  ELEMENTS  33 

Moreover,  the  dramatic  line  has  its  own  special  require- 
ments. Chief  of  these  is  absolute  economy.  Then  comes 
connotation,  for  dramatic  speech  constantly  suggests 
more  than  it  says  in  words. 

Furthermore,  the  relation  of  speech  to  action  must  be 
specially  considered.  In  fact,  when  a  play  has  been  finally 
passed  upon  as  correct  in  plot  and  characterization,  there 
yet  remains  no  mean  task  in  the  mere  cutting  and  fitting 
and  polishing  of  the  dialogue  to  harmonize  with  the  busi- 
ness of  pantomime  and  with  the  tone  of  the  play. 

Starting  with  an  Incident 

Manifestly,  all  these  processes  we  have  been  considering 
are  quite  the  same,  whether  one  starts  out  to  develop  a 
definite  theme  or  finds  the  first  suggestion  in  a  newspaper 
paragraph,  and  makes  the  aim  merely  that  of  telling  an 
interesting  story  on  the  stage.  Suppose  the  playwright 
comes  across  the  account  of  a  man  who,  after  having  been 
for  many  years  considered  dead,  turns  up  to  declare  his 
kinship  with  a  family  that  has  grown  rich  and  powerful. 
In  real  life,  the  claimant  is  regarded  as  an  impostor.  He 
has  experienced  a  variegated  career,  including  a  blow  on 
the  head  which  temporarily  destroyed  his  memory,  and  a 
term  in  the  penitentiary.  In  the  printed  accounts  of  the 
trial  of  his  suit  for  recognition  there  is  some  suggestion  as 
to  the  characteristics  of  the  various  persons  he  claims  as 
his  relatives.  There  are  glimpses  of  his  alleged  boyhood 
acquaintances  who  testify  for  or  against  him.  The 
reporters  describe  especially  his  own  appearance  and 
manner. 


34  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

One  sees  that  here  is  a  considerable  mass  of  available 
material.  In  a  general  way  the  leading  figures  are  already 
sketched  out,  together  with  the  leading  incidents.  There 
is,  probably,  only  the  germ  of  a  plot,  but  it  is  exceedingly 
fertile.  Of  course,  the  story  is  not  entirely  new.  But 
there  are  no  new  plots.  The  best  we  can  hope  for,  in  the 
way  of  novelty,  is  the  fresh  treatment  and  combination 
of  old  situations. 

In  the  present  instance,  from  the  characters  suggested 
in  the  newspaper  cuttings,  those  that  seem  vital  to  the 
story  will  be  chosen.  Others  will  be  added,  from  any 
source.  Perhaps  some  will  be  combined.  It  all  depends 
on  the  plot,  which  will  be  similarly  built  up.  We  shall 
haye  first  to  decide  whether  our  hero  is  really  an  impostor 
or  not,  and  then  whether  we  wish  to  reveal  his  true 
identity  in  the  start,  or  later  on.  Imagination  will  recon- 
struct the  boyhood  of  the  man  who  has  so  long  been  miss- 
ing, and  we  shall  choose  such  points  as  may  bear  upon  our 
fable.  The  incidents  of  the  memory-destroying  blow  and 
the  penitentiary  sentence  will  require  consideration,  first 
as  to  whether  they  shall  be  employed  or  discarded,  and  then 
as  to  how  they  shall  be  used.  Has  our  hero  actually  been 
in  the  penitentiary?  And,  if  so,  did  he  commit  a  crime,  or 
was  he  unjustly  punished?  We  will  reflect  that  it  is  often 
hard  to  gain  real  sympathy  for  a  criminal.  This  is  a  story 
play,  and  first  of  all  the  story  must  be  a  success.  How- 
ever, it  must  not  be  allowed  to  do  violence  to  the  charac- 
ters. 

And  so  we  proceed  along  exactly  the  same  lines  as  in  the 
case  of  the  play  which  had  its  inception  in  a  poet's  wording 


THE  ELEMENTS  35 

of  a  profound  truth.  Plot,  characterization,  dialogue,  and 
pantomime:  these  are  our  principal  ingredients.  They 
must  not  be  merely  mixed,  but  compounded  with  the 
most  delicate  chemical  accuracy.  Not  an  atom  too  much 
or  too  little.  Perfect  balance  and  proportion.  Complete 
fusion  and  blending. 

In  chapters  to  follow  we  shall  give  each  of  these  prime 
elements  a  separate  consideration. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Do  you  know  any  one  important  play  that  does  not 
feature  a  struggle? 

2.  Briefly  state  the  nature  of  the  conflict  in  five  modern 
plays. 

3.  Do  the  same  for  five  of  Shakespeare's  dramas. 

4.  Invent  five  themes  involving  struggles;  state  each  in 
one  short  sentence. 

5.  Discuss   two  diverse  modern  plays,  contrasting  a 
spiritual  struggle  with  that  of  a  business  or  social  nature. 

6.  Take  one  of  the  original  themes  asked  for  in  question 
four  and  roughly  select  the  characters  in  the  manner 
indicated  on  page  30. 

7.  Define  proponent,  protagonist. 

8.  Restate,  in  your  own  language,  with  any  changes  you 
prefer,  Mr.  Thomas's  formula,  pages  28  and  29. 

9.  Make  a  list  of  at  least  twenty-five  obstacles  con- 
tributory  to   struggle,   whether  found  in  short-stories, 
novels,  or  plays.     State  the  source  specifically  in  each 
instance. 

10.  Make  an  original  list  of  five  such  obstacles. 


36  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

11.  Find  five  such  obstacles  in  newspaper  accounts,  and, 
if  necessary,  modify  them  for  dramatic  plot  purposes. 

12.  Are  some  struggles  essentially  tragic,  others  essen- 
tially social  comedy,  and  others  essentially  comic?    Illus- 
trate. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE   PLOT   AND   SOME   OF  ITS   FUNDAMENTALS 

Novices  in  the  art  attain  to  finish  of  diction  and  precision  of 
portraiture  before  they  can  construct  the  plot. — ARISTOTLE, 
Poetics. 

The  common  notion  seems  to  be  in  favor  of  mere  complexity; 
but  a  plot,  properly  understood,  is  perfect  only  inasmuch  as  we 
shall  find  ourselves  unable  to  detach  from  it  or  disarrange  any 
single  incident  involved,  without  destruction  to  the  mass.  This 
we  say  is  the  point  of  perfection, — a  point  never  yet  attained, 
but  not  on  that  account  unattainable.  Practically,  we  may  con- 
sider a  plot  as  of  high  excellence  when  no  one  of  its  component 
parts  shall  be  susceptible  of  removal  without  detriment  to  the 
whole.  Here,  indeed,  is  a  vast  lowering  of  the  demand,  and  with 
less  than  this  no  writer  of  refined  taste  should  content  himself. 
— EDGAR  ALLAN  POE,  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Willis,  and  the  Drama. 

The  plot  is  the  skeleton  of  the  play.  "  The  word  means," 
explains  Professor  Bliss  Perry,1  "as  its  etymology  implies, 
a  weaving  together.  Or,  still  more  simply,  we  understand 
by  plot  that  which  happens  to  the  characters, — the  various 
ways  in  which  the  forces  represented  by  the  different 
personages  of  the  story  are  made  to  harmonize  or  clash 
through  external  action."2 

The  plot  of  a  play  attracts  the  attention  largely  through 

1  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,  Chapter  VI. 

1  To  this  it  may  be  added  that  an  effective  plot  is  one  that 
arranges  its  character-forces  so  as  to  rise  with  progressive  interest 
to  the  main  crisis,  bring  out  that  "big  scene"  strongly,  and  then 
adequately  end  all. — Editor. 


38  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

the  element  of  suspense,  or  the  curiosity  to  know  what  is 
going  to  happen  next.  Primarily,  however,  plots  are 
interesting  because  they  deal  with  people,  the  most  allur- 
ing subject  humanity  can  contemplate.  We  could  not 
possibly  be  so  fascinated  by  the  most  artfully  constructed 
chain  of  adventures  participated  in  by  mere  inanimate 
objects,  unless,  indeed,  they  had  been  thoroughly  per- 
sonified. 

The  Relation  of  Character  to  Plot 

It  is  obvious  that  in  the  consideration  of  human  nature, 
upon  the  stage  as  elsewhere,  the  vital  thing  is  what  the 
people  are;  and  this  we  can  satisfactorily  learn  only 
through  what  they  do.  Strictly  speaking,  character  is 
the  fundamental  in  drama;  but,  since  character  reveals 
itself  so  exclusively  through  conduct,  the  action  has  come 
to  stand  first,  in  all  discussions  from  Aristotle  on. 

The  Plot  Exhibits  the  Characters  in  Action 

"Without  action  there  cannot  be  a  tragedy,"  declared 
the  Stagyrite;  "there  may  be  without  character."  By 
"action,"  to  repeat,  Aristotle  intended  a  story  directed  by 
the  human  will  and  having  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end — what  we  now  call  a  plotted  story.  But,  on  the  stage, 
every  such  action  (plot)  must  be  worked  out  by  means  of 
the  outward  movements  of  the  characters,  accompanying 
their  words.  Thus  the  action  of  the  play  is  illustrated  by 
the  actions  of  the  players — that  is,  the  characters. 

We  have  seen  how  reflection  upon  a  theme  or  an  incident 
will  suggest  illustrative  characters,  who  will  in  turn  indi- 


THE  PLOT  AND  SOME   OF  ITS   FUNDAMENTALS          39 

cate  illustrative  action.  It  is  by  this  united  means  that 
the  drama  progresses.  Speech  is  but  an  auxiliary — not  at 
all  essential,  entirely  secondary.  The  playwright  will  do 
well  to  make  sure  early  in  his  labors  that  he  is  telling  his 
story  concretely  to  the  eye.  This  is  what  especially  counts 
in  our  day.  A  little  surreptitious,  dishonest  movement  on 
the  part  of  a  protesting  "saint"  will  convey  volumes  of 
information  on  the  subject  of  his  hypocrisy.  All  that  he 
can  possibly  say,  or  that  others  can  say  about  him,  may 
not  accomplish  half  so  much.  The  keen-eyed  dramatist 
looks  about  him  in  life  for  these  character-revealing 
motions  which  are  of  the  essence  of  drama. 

What  is  Novelty  in  Plot? 

Perhaps  the  foremost  difficulty  in  the  weaving  of  a  plot 
concerns  the  question  of  novelty.  As  has  often  been 
pointed  out,  absolutely  new  incidents  are  practically  impos- 
sible. The  thirty-six  fundamental  situations  counted  by 
Gozzi  and  Schiller — or  perhaps  only  the  twenty-four  pro- 
nounced by  Gerard  de  Nerval  to  be  fit  for  the  theatre — 
have  probably  been  utilized  in  every  conceivable  grouping.1 
Goethe — as  he  told  Eckermann — a  hundred  years  ago  gave 
up  the  search  for  a  new  story.  We  must  distinguish,  how- 
ever, between  the  fresh  and  the  trite  use  of  old  materials  in 
plot  building.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  greatest  dramatists 
— Sophocles,  Shakespeare,  Calderon,  Moliere — have  been 

1  The  student  interested  in  this  subject,  which  has  been  men- 
tioned by  practically  all  writers  dealing  with  the  structure  of  the 
drama,  should  consult  The  Thirty-six  Dramatic  Situations,  by 
Georges  Polti. 


4O  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

content  to  deal  with  familiar  narratives,  but  they  have  all 
by  their  handling,  more  particularly  through  the  infusion 
of  their  personalities,  made  the  old  material  distinctly 
their  own:  the  Athenian  dramatists,  like  the  Elizabethan, 
took  twice-told  tales  and  revitalized  them  with  new  mean- 
ing. Indeed,  there  are  certain  dramatic  combinations  that 
are  legendary,  and  that  one  or  another  playwright  is  for- 
ever reverting  to  as  the  basis  of  a  new  play.  So  the  Don 
Juan  story  is  fish  to  the  nets  of  dramatists  so  diverse  as 
Moliere  and  George  Bernard  Shaw.  So  the  Faust  legend 
affords  ample  opportunity  to  Marlowe  and  to  Goethe.  So 
Paolo  and  Francesca  serve  Boker  and  Maeterlinck  and 
Stephen  Phillips.  So  various  authors  can  find  various 
treatments  for  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  So  the  love  of  a 
sophisticated  woman  and  an  unsophisticated  man  can 
furnish  forth  pieces  like  "Thais,"  "Captain  Jinks," 
"Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel,"  "The  Garden  of  Allah," 
and  "Romance."  So  the  winning  back  of  a  husband's  or 
a  wife's  lost  love  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  manner  of  plays, 
such  as  "The  Thief,"  "The  Real  Thing,"  "A  Woman's 
Way,"  "The  Marionettes,"  "Divorcons,"  "The  Gover- 
nor's Lady,"  "The  Lady  from  Oklahoma,"  and  "The 
Master  of  the  House."  Where  one  writer  aims  at  senti- 
ment, another  attempts  tragedy;  and  melodrama  and 
farce  spring  with  equal  facility  from  almost  the  same 
material.1 

Actual  dramatic  novelty,  then,  is  perhaps  possible  only 
in  characterization.    Old  expedients  must  be  combined  for 

1  For  differentiations  among  kinds  of  plays  see  the  chapter  so 
entitled,  and  the  Glossary  which  prefaces  this  volume. 


THE   PLOT  AND   SOME   OF  ITS   FUNDAMENTALS  4! 

use  with  fresh  figures.  But,  when  both  figures  and  expe- 
dients are  trite,  the  probability  of  failure  is  strong.  Thus, 
for  example,  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  in  his  medley, 
"We  Can't  Be  as  Bad  as  All  That,"  employed  characters 
and  situations  which  not  only  many  other  writers  but 
also  he  himself  had  already  utilized  in  other  plays.  There 
was  the  woman  with  a  past,  endeavoring  to  forestall  dis- 
covery, as  in  "Mrs.  Dane's  Defense,"  together  with  the 
one  honest  man  contending  against  general  insincerity, 
as  in  "The  Liars."  The  very  combination  itself  had 
formerly  been  made  by  the  same  writer  in  his  "White- 
washing Julia." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  "Heimat"  of  Sudermann, 
which  appeared  in  America  under  the  title  of  "  Magda,"  set 
a  fashion  for  plays  wherein  advanced  young  women  who 
have  been  betrayed  deliberately  refuse  the  so-called 
reparation  of  marriage.  And  many  of  these  plays,  includ- 
ing such  recent  ones  as  Mr.  Stanley  Houghton's  "Hindle 
Wakes,"  Mr.  John  Galsworthy's  "The  Eldest  Son,"  and 
Mr.  St.  John  G.  Ervine's  "The  Magnanimous  Lover," 
are  quite  free  from  the  accusation  of  conventionality. 
Each  is  original  in  its  characterization,  as  well  as  in  the 
treatment  of  the  incidents  and  the  revealed  personality 
of  the  author. 

The  Need  for  Consistency  in  the  Plot 

But  if  the  plot  of  any  play  can  scarcely  pretend  to  abso- 
lute freshness,  it  can  at  least  achieve  consistency.  This 
latter  is  also  a  quality  bound  up  with,  and  dependent  on, 
the  characterization.  Because  it  is  easiest  to  devise  a  com- 


42  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

plicated  fable  in  frequently  disregarding  the  logical  actions 
of  the  people  portrayed  in  it,  dramatists  of  lesser  rank 
often  sacrifice  consistency.  The  best  dramaturgy,  how- 
ever, let  us  repeat,  fuses  plot  and  people  in  a  skilful 
blending  that  sacrifices  neither  element  to  the  other. 

The  playgoer's  sense  of  logic  is  more  and  more  easily 
offended  these  days  with  stage  personages  who  act  out  of 
accord  with  probability.  That  is  one  reason  why  co- 
incidence— more  concerning  which  subject  will  be  said 
later — is  considered  an  amateurish  expedient  in  plot 
building.  For  example,  we  are  likely  to  resent  being  asked 
to  believe  that  the  fortuitous  Colonel  Smith,  who  turns 
up,  in  Mr.  A.  E.  W.  Mason's  ''Green  Stockings,"  on  the 
very  day  the  spinster  heroine  has  had  his  death  notice 
published,  should  be  able  to  guess,  on  the  strength  of  the 
meagre  data  in  his  possession,  all  the  details  of  the  fabrica- 
tion she  has  foisted  on  her  relatives.  Our  resentment  in 
such  cases,  of  course,  varies  in  proportion  to  the  serious- 
ness of  the  attempt  to  portray  life,  for  much  is  accepted  in 
farce  that  would  prove  unconvincing  in  serious  drama. 

The  Use  of  Art  in  Gaining  Continuity  of  Plot 

Next  after  consistency,  the  plot  of  a  play  stands  most  in 
need  of  continuity.  Its  parts  must  be  clearly  related  in 
an  unbroken  and  cumulative  narrative.  We  all  know  that 
the  naturalistic  school  long  since  endeavored  to  suppress 
plot,  to  do  away,  in  fact,  with  art  itself,  and  to  substitute 
mere  fragments  of  reality.  Arno  Holz  and  his  followers 
labored  valiantly  in  this  collecting  of  graphophonic  con- 
versations. With  such  men  as  Gerhart  Hauptmann,  how- 


THE  PLOT  AND   SOME   OF  ITS  FUNDAMENTALS          43 

ever,  a  coherence  was  sought  which  should  at  the  same 
time  be  as  nearly  plotless  as  possible  and  without  suspicion 
of  heightening  or  of  culminating  effect. 

Monsieur  Augustin  Filon  has  almost  satirized  this 
extreme  of  tendency  in  his  volume,  De  Dumas  a  Rostand: 

"Place  .  .  .  these  personages  in  an  initial  situation 
which  will  give  free  play  to  their  dominant  vices,  their 
master  passions.  Then  let  them  go  it  alone;  meddle  not 
in  their  affairs;  you  will  spoil  everything.  No  complica- 
tions, no  climax,  nothing  but  the  development  of  the 
characters.  Above  all,  no  intervention  of  Providence.  .  . 
With  M.  Becque,  the  gods  never  arrive,  and  men  disen- 
tangle themselves  as  best  they  can.  How  does  one  know 
when  the  play  ends?  By  the  fact  that  the  curtain  falls. 
And  when  does  the  curtain  fall?  When  the  author  has 
extracted  from  his  characters  all  that  is  contained  in 
them  in  a  given  situation." 

It  is  true  that  there  is  very  little  plot  in  real  life.  Never- 
theless, the  drama,  to  satisfy,  must,  like  any  other  art,  be 
finished  and  not  fragmentary.  The  Torso  Belvedere  is  all 
very  well  in  its  way,  but  even  though  we  can  appreciate 
a  "Walking  Man"  by  Rodin,  no  one  would  think  of 
amputating  the  limbs  and  head  of  the  Apollo  as  a  means 
of  improvement.  And  equally  of  course,  if  there  were  no 
value  in  selection,  composition,  and  the  personal  equation, 
mere  color  photography  would  entirely  substitute  for 
landscape  painting.  The  soundest  critics  have  had  fre- 
quent need  to  reiterate  that  a  play,  like  a  picture,  must 
begin,  not  simply  start,  and  end,  not  merely  break  off. 
It  may  be  that  "the  constant  and  bitter  conflict  in  the 


44  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

world  does  not  arise  from  pointed  and  opposed  notions  of 
honor  and  duty  held  at  some  rare  climacteric  moment, 
but  from  the  far  more  tragic  grinding  of  a  hostile  environ- 
ment upon  man  or  of  the  imprisonment  of  alien  souls  in 
the  cage  of  some  social  bondage."  But  even  such  forms  of 
conflict  may  be  more  effectively  portrayed  by  artistic 
selection  and  arrangement  of  typical  scenes  than  with  the 
undiscriminating  camera.  Indeed,  the  first  of  the  realists 
himself  declared  that  "the  dramatic  author  who  shall 
know  man  as  did  Balzac  and  the  theatre  as  did  Scribe  will 
be  the  greatest  that  ever  lived."  We  are  undoubtedly 
made  so  that  we  understand 

"First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we 

have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 
And  so  they  are  better,  painted — better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.    Art  was  given  for  that; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending  our  minds  out." 

And  prominent  among  the  tried  and  proved  expedients  of 
the  dramatic  art  are  beginning,  complication,  climax,  end, 
— plot,  in  short. 

Says  Monsieur  Filon,  again  in  De  Dumas  a  Rostand, 
referring  to  Augier  and  Dumas,  "They  saw  clearly  one 
thing  that  escapes  our  young  authors  to-day:  that  is  that 
the  intrigue  is  necessary,  not  only  for  the  amusement  of 
the  spectator,  but  also  for  the  psychological  development 
itself.  Characters  are  not  studied  like  insects  under  the 
microscope.  They  do  not  even  know  themselves,  and  it 


THE   PLOT  AND   SOME   OF  ITS  FUNDAMENTALS          45 

might  be  said  that  they  do  not  exist,  except  potentially, 
until  the  moment  when  they  come  into  contact  and  con- 
flict with  events  or  with  other  characters." 

The  plot  of  a  drama,  then,  is  the  indispensable  story 
formed  of  interwoven  strands  of  action,  wherein  the 
characters  unconsciously  reveal  themselves.  If  there  are 
— under  the  sun — no  new  stories,  there  are  at  least  endless 
possibilities  for  the  novel  treatment  of  freshly  drawn 
figures  studied  from  life  and  placed  in  unhackneyed 
relationships  and  environments.  And — the  problem  of 
emotional  interest  aside — this  sequence  of  motive  and 
incident  in  which  the  personages  involve  themselves 
should  have  a  definite  beginning,  a  logical  continuity, 
and  a  convincing  and  satisfying  end. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  From  any  available  works  on  the  technique  of  the 
drama  or  of  fiction  select  the  definition  of  plot  that  to 
you  seems  best.1 

2.  Try  to  formulate  a  definition  of  your  own.    Remem- 
ber that  a  definition  must  include  neither  too  little  nor 
too  much. 

3.  Distinguish  between  the  action  of  a  play  and  the 
actions  of  the  characters. 

4.  Why  is  the  play  as  a  type  more  given  to  external 
action  than  is  the  novel? 

1  Full  chapters  on  plot  are  given  in  Writing  the  Short-Story, 
by  J.  Berg  Esenwein,  Writing  the  Photoplay,  by  Esenwein  and 
Leeds,  and  The  Art  of  Story-Writing,  by  Esenwein  and  Chambers, 
issued  uniform  with  the  present  volume  of  "The  Writer's 
Library." 


46  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

5.  Does  the  relation  of  conduct  to  character  hold  on 
the  stage  as  it  does  in  real  life? 

6.  In  which  realm  would  the  relation  be  more  marked? 

7.  Give  one  example  of  a  modern  play  in  which  fresh 
handling  has  saved  a  trite  plot. 

8.  Give  examples  of  your  own  discovery  of  at  least  two 
playwrights'  use  of  the  same  fundamental  plot  idea. 

9.  Discuss  briefly  the  fitness  of  the  following  compari- 
son: The  plot  brings  the  leading  character  in  the  play  to  a 
cross-roads  in  his  career  and  shows  dramatically  the  force 
or  forces  that  determine  his  course,  and  then  swiftly 
suggests  the  end  of  the  road. 

10.  From  some  present-day  play  show  how  the  follow- 
ing statement  applies:  The  plot  in  drama  shows  by  means 
of  action  a  soul  in  its  hour  of  crisis,  what  brought  about 
the  crisis,  what  constitutes  the  problem,  and  how  it  is 
solved. 

11.  Criticise  some  modern  play  from  the  standpoint  of 
its  handling  of  struggle  as  a  plot  element. 

12.  Does  crisis — a  " mix-up"  brought  to  a   breathless 
query  of  "What  will  be  the  outcome?" — apply  to  lighter 
forms  of  drama  as  well  as  to  the  more  serious?    Illustrate 
from  actual  plays. 

13.  What  do  you  understand  by  "consistency"  of  plot? 
Illustrate. 

14.  What  do  you  mean  by  "continuity?"    Illustrate. 

15.  What  is  Realism?     Naturalism? 

16.  Take  a  simple  though  vivid  happening  as  found  in 
the  newspapers  and  show  how  by  artistic  arrangement — 
selection,  elimination,  addition,  shaping,  shifting  of  the 


THE  PLOT  AND  SOME  OF  ITS  FUNDAMENTALS          47 

order  of  events — you  could  make  a  dramatic  plot.  Do  not 
forget  to  make  the  struggle  central,  and  indicate  not  only 
the  outcome  but  the  means  by  which  it  is  brought  about. 


CHAPTER  V 


SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS 

It  [the  "action,"  or  plot]  embraces  not  only  the  deeds,  the 
incidents,  the  situations,  but  also  the  mental  processes,  and  the 
motives  which  underlie  the  outward  events  or  which  result  from 
them.  It  is  the  compendious  expression  for  all  these  forces 
working  together  toward  a  definite  end. — S.  H.  BUTCHER,  A  ristotle's 
Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art. 

In  the  plot  of  any  story,  whether  it  be  a  mere  thread  of  inci- 
dent, as  in  the  stories  of  the  Bible,  or  the  slow  complicated  move- 
ment of  some  modern  novels,  the  one  necessity  which  underlies 
everything  is  that  a  throng  of  things  which  happened  all  together 
must  be  straightened  out  into  single  file  in  order  to  be  put  into 
words.  .  .  .  Your  first  act.  ...  is  to  get  your  material  into 
a  natural  and  orderly  sequence. — J.  H.  GARDINER,  The  Forms 
of  Prose  Literature. 

Before  the  author  ventures  upon  the  start  of  a  play, 
there  are  several  important  considerations  to  be  taken  into 
account. 

How  many  acts  are  there  to  be?  Modern  dramaturgy 
prefers  three  or  four;  although  there  are  noteworthy 
recent  examples  of  the  five — and  even  of  the  two-act 
drama.  How  many  scenes  to  the  act?  Present-day  cus- 
tom, except  in  the  case  of  spectacular  melodrama,  usually 
prescribes  but  one.  "  On  Trial,"  "  My  Lady's  Dress,"  and 
"The  Phantom  Rival"  are  noteworthy  exceptions,  illus- 
trating the  moving  picture  influence.  It  is  always  well  to 
consider  material  economy. 


SOME   FURTHER   PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS  49 

Elaborate  and  numerous  settings,  as  well  as  extensive 
casts,  rarely  appeal  to  the  prospective  producer;  and, 
besides,  they  often  serve  to  dissipate  the  attention  of  the 
audience.  Spectators  doubtless  take  a  passing  pleasure  in 
seeing  the  curtain  rise  on  new  and  interesting  settings; 
but  if  the  play  itself  be  what  it  should,  scenic  monotony 
will  be  readily  forgiven.  Everyone  knows  that  it  is  a 
common  occurrence  nowadays  for  a  slender  play  to  be 
quite  lost  in  an  elaborate  mise  en  scene.  Recent  cases  in 
point  are  "The  Garden  of  Allah,"  "The  Highway  of  Life," 
and  perhaps  to  a  considerable  extent  "The  Battle  Cry." 
Mr.  Edward  Sheldon's  "The  Garden  of  Paradise,"  founded 
on  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  lovely  story  of  the  little 
mermaid,  was  fairly  swamped  by  the  superb  settings 
devised  for  it  by  Mr.  Joseph  Urban. 

But  it  may  be  noted  that  it  is  not  always  the  excess  of 
scenery  that  is  at  fault.  The  negro  lad  in  the  familiar 
anecdote,  who  became  ill,  explained  ruefully  that  it  was  a 
case  not  of  too  much  watermelon,  but  of  "too  little 
niggah."  In  many  instances  it  is  not  too  much  scenery — 
unless  the  time  limit  be  overstepped — that  brings  failure, 
but  rather  too  little  play.  The  author  should  remember 
that  only  a  big  picture  can  take  a  massive  frame. 

All  the  foregoing  bears  directly  and  vitally  on  the  ques- 
tion of  plot  handling,  as  regards  not  only  the  finished 
product  but  also  the  preliminary  considerations. 

Where  to  Begin  the  Play 

In  formulating  his  plot  itself,  obviously  the  first  ques- 
tion that  confronts  the  playwright  is,  Where  to  begin? 


5O  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

Some  leisurely  dramatists  commence  like  the  eighteenth 
century  novelists,  if  not  at  or  before  the  birth,  at  least 
early  in  the  youth  of  hero  or  heroine.  "The  High  Road," 
of  Mr.  Edward  Sheldon,  follows  this  course,  long  intervals 
elapsing  between  the  acts.  Mr.  Thompson  Buchanan's 
melodrama,  "Life,"  gives  us  our  first  glimpse  of  the  pro- 
tagonist while  he  is  still  an  undergraduate — that  is, 
manifestly,  before  he  has  "commenced"  life. 

The  opposite  plan  is  to  seize  the  story  near  the  crisis,  to 
let  the  causes  be  briefly  suggested  in  the  exposition,  and 
to  produce  in  the  whole  play,  as  critics  have  told  us  that 
Ibsen  so  often  did,  only  a  sort  of  elaborated  fifth  act. 
"The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray"  is  a  familiar  example, 
though  "Rosmersholm"  is  a  more  extreme  instance. 

On  the  whole,  this  second  scheme  is  preferable.  It  makes 
for  concentration  and  avoids  the  unessential.  And,  gen- 
erally speaking,  it  gives  a  better  opportunity  for  the  more 
comprehensive  character-drawing.  The  point  where  one 
begins,  however,  depends  largely  on  the  purpose  in  mind. 
A  detective  story,  whether  in  print  or  on  the  stage,  usually 
starts  at  what  is,  chronologically,  almost  the  end  of  the  tale, 
namely,  the  crime,  and  works  back  to  the  start,  the  motive 
of  the  criminal.  In  Mr.  Elmer  L.  Reizenstein's  "On 
Trial" — much  heralded  by  the  osteocephalous  asarevolu- 
tionizer  of  all  established  usage — the  narrative  commences 
with  the  trial  of  the  murderer  and  proceeds  by  stages  into 
the  past,  in  the  detective-story  manner,  reverting  occa- 
sionally to  the  courtroom,  where,  of  course,  the  tale  is 
being  told  as  the  trial  progresses.  In  "Innocent"  the 
hero  shoots  himself  during  the  prologue,  leaving  a  diary, 


SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS  51 

the  events  of  which  are  acted  out  in  the  regular  time 
order.  There  is,  obviously,  nothing  revolutionary  about 
this  method,  not  even  in  the  frequent  flitting  from  scene 
to  scene,  as  in  "On  Trial,"  a  procedure  in  itself  certainly 
not  younger  than  the  Elizabethan  drama. 

Relative  Prominence  of  the  Characters 

Another  important  preliminary  consideration  deals  with 
the  question  of  whether  the  play  is  to  have  a  "star"  part. 
Formerly  few  dramas  lacked  a  central  figure  about  whom, 
as  the  story  unfolded,  the  other  dramatis  persona  revolved. 
At  present  there  is  a  growing  tendency  to  emphasize  a 
small  group  of  significant  characters,  rather  than  merely 
one  of  them.  However,  the  playwright  of  to-day  who 
looks  to  the  actor's  interest,  so  far  as  gaining  production 
for  his  play  is  concerned,  will  do  well  to  provide  for  the 
emphasized  opportunities  demanded  by  the  "star" 
system. 

Above  all,  in  this  connection,  be  sure  to  make  your 
protagonist  sympathetic.  He  may  be  a  forger  like  Jim  the 
Penman,  or  a  burglar  like  Arsene  Lupin;  she  may  be  a 
courtesan  like  Zaza  or  Marguerite  Gautier;  but  the 
utmost  skill  must  be  exercised  to  make  him  or  her  appeal- 
ing, lest  there  turn  out  to  be  no  differentiation  between 
"hero"  or  "heroine"  and  villain  or  adventuress.  By  way 
of  illustration,  the  student  of  dramatic  technique  would 
find  it  enlightening  to  consider  the  causes  for  the  stage 
inadequacy  of  Stevenson  and  Henley's  "Macaire." 


52  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Unity  and  Symmetry  of  Plot 

Unity  of  thought  and  feeling,  as  well  as  simplicity,  is 
essential  to  the  drama,  as  to  all  good  art.  Symmetry,  too, 
is  often  a  valuable  asset,  though  it  may  be  exaggerated 
into  a  defect.  For  example,  in  "The  House  Next  Door," 
a  comedy  adapted  from  the  German  by  Mr.  J.  Hartley 
Manners,  there  are,  to  begin  with,  two  homes.  At  the 
head  of  each  is  a  baronet,  whose  household  consists  of  a 
wife,  a  son,  a  daughter,  and  at  least  one  servant.  This 
elaborate  balance  is  maintained  in  the  plot,  the  son  of  each 
family  being  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  the  other.  In 
Mr.  Rudolf  Besier's  "Lady  Patricia,"  to  cite  another  often 
cited  instance,  the  romantic  heroine  and  her  husband  each 
carries  on  a  supposed  love  affair  with  a  susceptible  young- 
ster. Eventually  the  two  couples  are  reasserted  as  they 
properly  should  be;  and,  meanwhile,  the  uniform  suc- 
cession of  balanced  scenes  has  made  for  a  considerable 
monotony. 

But  excessive  symmetry  is  a  far  less  serious  defect  than 
a  lack  of  unity,  meaning,  of  course,  the  only  "unity"  that 
matters — that  of  "action,"  idea,  tone.  The  old-fashioned 
"underplot"  frequently  caused  this  latter  failing. 
Indeed,  it  was  often  difficult  to  distinguish  the  minor  from 
the  major  action.  In  the  finished  plays  of  to-day  at  least, 
the  comic  relief  is  not  separated  from  the  central  plot,  as 
it  is,  for  instance,  in  "Secret  Service,"  or  "Held  by  the 
Enemy."  Rather,  the  amusing  characters,  like  the  juvenile 
lovers,  are  woven  into  the  main  story. 

Generally  speaking,  a  play  should  elaborate  only  one 
theme  or  action — and  a  "problem"  play  should  attempt 


SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS       53 

only  one  problem.  Otherwise  there  may  be  a  falling 
between  stools.  In  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones's  melodrama, 
"Lydia  Gilmore,"  there  is,  first,  a  mother  who  perjures 
herself  for  the  sake  of  her  child,  and,  second,  her  lover,  an 
attorney  who  connives  at  perjury  to  save  her  husband. 
Here  are  obviously  two  striking  problems;  but  the  play 
balks  them  both,  as  such  plays  almost  invariably  do. 

As  for  unity  of  feeling,  it  is  quite  as  essential  to  good 
dramatic  composition  as  to  any  other  kind.  This  does  not 
mean  that  we  must  strictly  adhere  to  the  pseudo-classic 
differentiation  of  the  genres.  On  the  contrary,  we  may — 
in  fact,  nearly  always  must — mingle  the  comic  with  the 
tragic,  the  humorous  and  the  pathetic,  the  lofty  and  the 
humble,  since,  as  romanticists  have  so  long  pointed  out, 
these  elements  are  not  separated  in  actual  life.  But  there 
are  distinct  types  of  the  drama,  and  they  are  not  with 
impunity  to  be  confused.  Farce,  for  example,  is  pitched  in 
a  very  different  key  from  comedy,  and  melodrama  from 
tragedy.1  Moreover,  satire  and  seriousness  must  be 
handled  discreetly  in  conjunction  with  each  other.  Only 
the  master  hand  can  be  trusted  to  blend  them  safely,  as 
Pinero  has  done  in  "The  Thunderbolt." 

"The  impression  must  be  one,"  insisted  Sarcey,  in  his 
"./Esthetics  of  the  Theatre:"  "every  mixture  of  laughter 
and  tears  threatens  to  confuse  it.  It  is  better,  then,  to 
abstain,  and  there  is  nothing  more  legitimate  than  the 
absolute  distinction  of  the  comic  and  the  tragic,  of  the 
grotesque  and  the  sublime.  However,"  the  good  "Uncle" 
added  somewhat  amusingly,  "every  rule  is  subject  to 

1  See  the  chapter  on  "Kinds  of  Plays." 


54  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

numerous  exceptions."  This  one  is,  certainly.  Never- 
theless— as  the  same  shrewd  critic  pointed  out — when 
"Le  Crocodile"  of  Sardou  begins  as  comedy  of  manners, 
turns  into  philosophical  satire,  changes  then  to  drame 
noir,  at  length  becomes  idyllic,  and  ends  in  fantasy,  one  is 
at  every  moment  disconcerted,  thrown  off  the  track. 

Violations  of  Unity  of  Feeling 

In  vaudeville  recently  there  was  performed  a  playlet 
which  had  as  its  main  content  and  its  sole  source  of  inter- 
est, the  grotesque  antics  of  an  alcoholic,  chiefly  in  the 
repeated  negotiation  of  a  spiral  stairway.  Into  this 
vehicle  of  low  comedy  acrobatics,  however,  was  introduced 
an  absurd  and  serious  version  of  that  ancient  melo- 
dramatic expedient — the  girl  who  sells  herself  to  save  her 
father  from  debt.  Eventually  the  clown  inebriate,  himself 
enamored  of  the  heroine,  learning  the  reason  of  her  com- 
plaisance, paid  the  paternal  bills  and,  after  an  uninten- 
tionally ridiculous  moment  of  "agony,"  handed  the  girl 
over  to  her  poor  but  honest  lover. 

It  all  constituted  an  extreme  instance  of  that  violated 
unity  of  impression,  that  totally  unsuccessful  effort  to 
blend  the  humorous  and  the  pathetic,  against  which  so 
many  authorities  have  repeatedly  warned  us.  While  the 
crudity  of  it  was  no  great  matter  in  vaudeville,  obviously 
it  would  have  gone  far  toward  ruining  the  chances  of  any 
full-length  effort  at  play  writing. 

Certainly  the  "confusion  of  the  genres,"  in  almost 
any  circumstances,  must  prove  a  dangerous  pastime. 
Desirable  and  even  necessary  as  it  is  to  provide  the  relief 


SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS        55 

of  humor  in  serious  plays,  to  sweep  an  audience  along 
through  an  act  of  obvious  melodrama,  and  then  to  switch 
suddenly  into  settled  high  comedy  or  perhaps  even 
tragedy,  is  to  bewilder  and  render  us  impatient.  The 
failure  of  "The  Big  Idea"  of  Messrs.  A.  E.  Thomas  and 
Clayton  Hamilton  was  probably  due  as  much  to  the  fact 
that  it  skipped  continually  from  melodrama  to  farcical 
burlesque  and  back  again  as  to  any  of  the  other  contribu- 
tory causes.  The  gist  of  the  matter  is  that,  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, the  spectator  loses  all  confidence  in  what  he  is 
observing,  because  the  fundamental  illusion  upon  which — 
as  Sarcey  and  numerous  of  his  faithful  followers  have 
repeatedly  pointed  out — the  success  of  the  theatre 
depends,  is  shattered  again  and  again. 

In  the  case  of  "My  Lady's  Dress,"  the  conditions  are 
quite  different,  Mr.  Edward  Knoblauch's  entertainment 
being  little  more  than  a  string  of  distinct  and  separate 
playlets.  Although  taken  together  the  work  comprises 
farce,  melodrama,  comedy,  and  tragedy,  each  of  these 
elements  keeps  pretty  strictly  to  its  own  galley.  Of 
course,  the  thing  as  a  whole  lacks  the  full  appeal  of  actually 
unified  drama. 

The  Relations  of  the  Genres 

Almost  everybody  who  writes  about  the  theatre  nowa- 
days takes  frequent  occasion  to  remind  us  that  farce  is  to 
comedy  as  melodrama  is  to  tragedy;  that  in  farce  and 
melodrama  the  plot  is  emphasized  at  the  expense  of  the 
characterization;  and  that  in  comedy  and  tragedy  the 
characterization  takes  precedence  of  the  plot.  It  is 


56  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

evident  that,  of  the  four  forms,  farce  and  melodrama, 
comedy  and  tragedy,  are  respectively  the  nearest  akin. 
Melodramatic  farce,1  or  farcical  melodrama,  like  tragi- 
comedy, is  not  impossible.  In  fact,  the  markedly  success- 
ful "Officer  666,"  of  Mr.  Augustin  MacHugh,  is  a  case  in 
point,  as  in  a  lesser  degree  is  Mr.  James  Montgomery's 
"Ready  Money."  "Seven  Keys  to  Baldpate,"  "The 
Ghost  Breaker,"  "Hawthorne  of  the  U.  S.  A."  and  "Under 
Cover"  are  examples  of  similar  combination. 

Occasionally  we  meet  with  a  successful  farce  that 
depends  on  a  distinctly  comedy  treatment,  as  in  the  case 
of  Messrs.  Wilfred  T.  Coleby  and  Edward  Knoblauch's 
amusing  skit,  "The  Headmaster,"  which  draws  its  effec- 
tiveness from  the  display  of  an  elaborately  sketched  char- 
acter confronting  a  preposterous  combination  of  circum- 
stances. On  the  other  hand,  Sir  Arthur  Pinero's  "Pre- 
serving Mr.  Panmure"  failed  largely  because  of  the 
incompatibility  of  its  comedy  subject-matter  with  its 
farcical  form;  and  such  hybrids  as  a  rule  have  not  proved 
hardy.  As  for  a  piece  that  wavers  between  farce  and 
tragedy,  or  between  high  comedy  and  melodrama,  it  will 
certainly  find  existence  a  struggle. 

Just  what  moods  may  be  safely  mixed,  it  is  the  business 
of  the  playwright  to  determine — if  he  can.  I  recall  at  least 
one  case  in  which  the  friendly  criticism  of  an  unproduced 
play  that  mingled  comedy  with  a  type  of  neurotic  tragedy 
resulted  in  both  the  emasculation  of  the  piece  and  delay 
until  another  equally  mixed  embodiment  of  the  same 

1  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  William  Ernest  Henley,  for 
example,  thus  classified  their  play,  "Macaire." 


SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS  57 

novel  subject  had  been  successfully  acted.  In  all  such 
matters  we  are  constantly  thrown  back  upon  the  signifi- 
cant fact  that  whatever  persistent  audiences  unquestion- 
ingly  accept  will  do,  even  though  it  be  a  scene  like  the  first 
act  climax  of  a  popular  version  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin," 
wherein  simultaneously  the  serious  villain  is  shot  and  the 
comic  villain  is  spanked! 

The  "happy  ending"  is  notoriously  responsible  for 
countless  abrupt  changes  of  dramatic  key.  Many  a  play- 
wright, as  will  be  elsewhere  emphasized,  starts  out  with 
potential  tragedy  and  winds  up  in  sudden  comedy  or 
farce,  presumably  in  response  to  a  relentless  popular 
demand.  All  too  obviously,  this  is  the  sheerest  prostitu- 
tion of  the  art.  Of  course,  there  is  slight  excuse  for  arbi- 
trarily killing  off  characters  in  a  play  that  might  with 
reason  end  pleasantly;  but  to  portray  clear-cut  characters 
in  an  action  and  an  environment  that  make  for  tragedy, 
and  at  the  last  moment  belie  them  for  the  sake  of  a  trite 
marriage  or  an  incredible  reconciliation,  is  indeed  to  sell 
one's  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

Perhaps  the  most  serious  violation  of  the  unity  of  feeling 
or  tone  in  plays  is  produced  by  the  injection  of  melodrama 
into  what  should  be  comedy  or  tragedy.  There  are  several 
latter-day  writers  who  are  chronically  troubled  by  this 
tendency.  Mr.  Eugene  Walter1  allowed  it  to  militate 

1 "  In  '  Paid  in  Full '  Mr.  Walter  starts  out  with  the  very  modern 
and  very  general  problem  of  living  according  to  latter-day 
standards  upon  an  inadequate  income.  Much  as  Mr.  Broadhurst 
does  in  "Bought  and  Paid  For,"  and  as  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  does 
in  "Mid-Channel,"  as  Clyde  Fitch  does  in  "The  City,"  and  as 
scores  of  lesser  lights  have  done  in  scores  of  other  plays,  however, 


58  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

against  his  success  in  "Paid  in  Full,"  much  as  Mr.  James 
Forbes  did  in  "The  Chorus  Lady,"  or  Mr.  Henry  Arthur 
Jones  in  "Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel." 

A  Logical  Plan  Necessary 

The  plot  of  a  drama,  then,  requires  consistency,  con- 
tinuity, unity,  in  addition — or  rather  as  contributing  ele- 
ments— to  interest.  It  would  seem  manifest  that  these 
qualities  cannot  be  attained  unless  the  play  is  constructed 
upon  a  definite,  preconceived  plan.  It  has  been  asserted 
that  the  stage  itself  supplies  the  element  of  imagination  by 
means  of  its  interpreters,  its  scenery,  and  its  accessories, 
and  that  in  a  sense  invention  really  does  not  exist  for  the 
modern  realistic  dramatist,  who  merely  reproduces 
actuality  for  the  theatre.  The  supreme  element  remaining 
is  logic.  Dumas  fils,  the  master  logician  of  the  stage, 
advises  the  playwright  never  to  commence  his  work  until 
he  is  sure  of  the  scene,  the  movement,  the  very  language 

Mr.  Walter  here  quickly  throws  his  initial  problem  overboard 
and  launches  into  a  conventional,  if  rugged  and  brutal  narrative. 
It  is  the  old  story  of  the  plot-ridden  characters  who,  instead  of 
doing  the  inevitable  things  that  would  result  from  all  the  con- 
ditions according  to  the  logic  of  life,  do  the  usual  things  which 
are  merely  theatrically  effective  according  to  the  quite  different 
unlogic  of  the  footlights.  Before  we  have  progressed  far  into 
Act  II  we  have  broken  with  our  fundamental  social  and  economic 
problem — one,  besides,  that  teems  with  unexplored  dramatic 
possibilities — and  we  are  deep  in  the  old,  old  melodrama  of  the 
woman  tempted  to  sacrifice  her  honor  to  save  a  man  from  ruin." 

— The  Drama  To-day. 

The  beginner  should  study,  by  way  of  contrast,  the  remorseless 
working  out  of  the  tragic  theme  in  the  same  gifted  author's, 
"The  Easiest  Way." 


SOME   FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS  59 

of  the  final  act1.  In  fact,  the  end  of  the  play  should  be  the 
goal  toward  which  the  author  proceeds  from  the  beginning. 
At  the  moment  of  departure  he  should  have  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  destination. 

"With  what  fulness,  with  what  firmness  of  logic," 
Sarcey  exclaims,  "has  Dumas  exposed  and  sustained  his 
thesis!  The  whole  play  bears  its  weight  on  this  conclu- 
sion, on  this  final  point,  after  which  one  might  write,  as 
do  the  geometricians:  Q.  E.  D.:  quod  erat  demonstrandum. 
The  thesis-comedies  of  Dumas  are,  indeed,  living  and 
passionate  theorems." 

Manifestly,  however,  only  the  most  spiritless  of  mortals 
would  allow  himself  to  be  indissolubly  bound  by  any  pre- 
liminaries of  his  own  devising.  Few  persons  build  so  much 
as  a  humble  dwelling-house  in  exact  accordance  with  the 
original  specifications.  We  discover  from  Ibsen's  carefully 
preserved  notes  and  sketches  that  he  often  learned  to  know 
his  characters  only  after  he  had  begun  to  reduce  his 
scenario  to  dialogue,  and  that,  in  consequence,  he  fre- 
quently rewrote  his  play  entire.  This  is,  of  course,  the 
rational  procedure.  The  dramatist  lays  out  his  ground- 
plan  and  follows  it  only  so  far  as  it  is  capable  of  leading 
him.  Once  he  finds  himself  beginning  to  transcend  it,  he 

1  "Dumas  is,  in  dramatic  art,  the  most  logical  man  I  know;  his 
plays — I  speak  of  the  good  ones — are  built  with  mathematical 
precision;  we  can,  then,  with  the  aid  of  the  denouement  which 
was  his  ultimate  object,  reconstruct  through  a  process  of  reason- 
ing the  entire  drama  and  show  the  part  each  element  must  of 
necessity  play  in  the  common  action." — Francisque  Sarcey, 
Quarante  Ans  de  Thedtre. 


60  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

alters  it  to  whatever  extent  is  indicated,  even  to  that  of 
complete  re-invention.  It  was  thus  with  "The  Wild 
Duck,"  the  elaboration  of  which  resulted  in  an  entire 
readjustment  of  the  original  outlines. 

It  is  safe  to  say,  then,  that  some  preliminary  sketch — 
usually  written  down,  though  perhaps  occasionally  merely 
mental — is  invariably  the  forerunner  of  a  successful 
drama.  Such  a  document  generally  contains  a  plan  of 
the  plot  as  divided  into  acts,  together  with  a  notion 
of  the  characters,  and  certain  hints  as  to  the  dialogue. 
Frequently,  as  the  resultant  play  takes  shape,  new 
developments  arise,  and  there  is  an  increase  of  illu- 
mination. Only  the  formalist,  let  it  be  emphasized, 
would  under  such  conditions  allow  himself  to  be  cir- 
cumscribed by  his  own  preconceived  limitations;  certainly 
not  the  ebullient,  creative  dramatist  dealing  enthusias- 
tically with  the  infinite  complexity  of  human  life  and 
character. 

Before  beginning  work  upon  any  play,  accordingly,  the 
dramatist  should  determine  the  scheme  of  division,  the 
locale,  and  the  importance  and  appeal  of  his  leading 
character.  Singleness  of  theme  or  purpose  and,  perhaps, 
symmetry  of  structure  should  be  utilized  to  insure  unity 
of  idea,  of  impression,  and  of  tone.  Finally,  there  should 
be  a  reasonably  definite  preconceived  plan;  but  its  terms 
should  in  no  case  be  allowed  to  dictate  a  character- 
belying  compromise  for  any  purposes  of  plot,  including 
the  "happy  ending,"  nor  in  any  way  to  hamper  the  full 
and  free  development  of  the  personages  and  of  the 
impeccable  logic  of  their  conduct. 


SOME  FURTHER  PLOT  FUNDAMENTALS  6 1 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  From  your  own  observation,  how  many  acts  and 
scenes  are  used  in  five  specified  plays? 

2.  What  changes  in  this  respect  would,  in  your  opinion, 
have  added  to  popular  interest  and  the  effectiveness  of  the 
production?    Consider  the  questions  of  cost  and  practi- 
cability in  making  your  answer. 

3.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  play  that  degenerated  into  a 
mere  blur  of  many  successive  scenes?    If  so,  criticise  it 
constructively — that  is,  so  as  to  suggest  improvements. 

4.  Show  where,  in  the  plot,  five  modern  plays  made 
their  beginnings.     Criticise  any  two  of  these  favorably  or 
adversely  from  the  standpoint  of  effectiveness,  or  atten- 
tion-winning value. 

5.  What    modern    plays    divide    prominence    among 
several,  or  even  all  the  characters? 

6.  Personally,   do   you   like   this   system?     Do   your 
friends?    Find  out,  and  give  reasons. 

7.  What  were  the  "Three  Unities"  (see  any  encyclo- 
pedia) and  how  do  our  modern  standards  differ  from  them? 

8.  What  modern  Unities  are  especially  important? 

9.  Illustrating  from  modern  plays,  show  how  some  of 
them  are  (a)  effectively  used,  or  (6)  neglected. 

10.  Does  the  saying  "Nothing  succeeds  like  success" 
have  any  bearing  on  such  dramatic  "laws"  as  the  modern 
Unities? 

11.  Show  how  Balance,  or  Symmetry,  may  be  over- 
emphasized. 

12.  Does  Poe's  dictum  regarding  the  short-story,  that 


62  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

it  should  leave  a  completely  unified  impression,  apply  to 
the  play?    If  so,  can  you  give  several  instances  in  point? 

13.  Does  the  use  of  a  clear-cut  theme  have  any  bearing 
on  the  unity  of  a  play? 

14.  What  forces  in  the  audience  tempt  a  playwright  to 
disregard  unity? 

15.  In  your  opinion,  what  technical  defects  in  "Macaire" 
seem  calculated  to  make  the  play  ineffective  for  stage 
purposes? 

1 6.  Show  why  a  carefully  elaborated  outline  ought  to 
help  the  playwright  to  produce  a  unified,   consistent, 
climacteric,  and  logical  play. 

17.  Using  one  of  your  own  themes,  construct  such  an 
outline  for  a  play. 


CHAPTER  VI 


OUTLINING   THE   COMPLICATION 

Every  alteration  or  crossing  of  a  design,  every  new-sprung 
passion,  and  turn  of  it,  is  a  part  of  the  action,  and  much  the 
noblest,  except  we  conceive  nothing  to  be  action  till  they  come 
to  blows. — DRYDEN,  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy. 

I  remember  very  distinctly  his  saying  to  me:  "There  are,  so 
far  as  I  know,  three  ways,  and  three  ways  only,  of  writing  a  story. 
You  may  take  a  plot  and  fit  characters  to  it,  or  you  may  take  a 
character  and  choose  incidents  and  situations  to  develop  it,  or 
lastly — you  must  bear  with  me  while  I  try  to  make  this  clear" — 
(here  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
shape  something  and  give  it  outline  and  form) — "you  may  take 
a  certain  atmosphere  and  get  action  and  persons  to  express  and 
realize  it.  I'll  give  you  an  example — 'The  Merry  Men.'  There 
I  began  with  the  feeling  of  one  of  those  islands  on  the  west  coast 
of  Scotland,  and  I  gradually  developed  the  story  to  express  the 
sentiment  with  which  the  coast  affected  me." — GRAHAM  BAL- 
FOUR,  Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

"The  crux  of  the  plot  is  what  the  word  implies — a  cross." 
(I  take  these  illuminating  passages  from  Dr.  Esenwein.) 
"It  may  be  like  a  cross-roads,  with  its  consequent  choice 
of  ways,  or  it  may  be  the  crossing  of  wills  in  individuals,  or 
the  unintentional  crossing  of  one's  purposes  by  some 
innocent  person,  or  the  rising  of  an  evil  deed  out  of  one's 
past  to  cross  his  ambitions,  or  any  one  of  a  countless  num- 
ber of  such  complications.  The  types  are  limited,  but  the 
variations  are  unlimited  and  invite  the  resourceful  play- 
wright. 


64  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

"In  a  full-length  play  a  single  complication  of  major 
importance  and  strength  may  result  in  struggle  enough 
to  keep  the  characters  embroiled  down  to  the  very  end. 
In  this  way  minor  complications  will  weave  in  and  out, 
all  contributory  to  or  growing  out  of  the  main  struggle. 
The  one  thing  to  be  avoided,  as  has  already  been  sug- 
gested, is  that  two  complications  of  major  calibre  should 
war  for  possession  of  the  auditor's  interest.  Minor  com- 
plications must  resolutely  be  kept  in  their  places." 

Planning  the  Complication 

By  means  of  such  devices  as  are  discussed  in  the 
immediately  succeeding  chapters,  as  well  as  by  use  of  the 
ordinary  chain  of  events  in  the  story,  the  beginner  will 
build  a  plot  outline.  Having  laid  out  the  strands  of 
interest  and  motive  provided  by  the  characters  in  their 
initial  situation,  he  proceeds  to  the  interweaving  of  those 
strands.  New  incidents,  personages,  or  motives  are  intro- 
duced. Something  happens  which  changes  the  trend  of 
affairs.  Two  or  more  characters  coming  together  clash, 
react,  and  proceed  along  diverted  courses.  A  loves  B  and 
would  marry  her.  But  C  arrives  and  conceives  a  similar 
ambition.  A  and  C  contend,  and  D  intervenes,  with  his 
own  peculiar  motive,  to  lend  his  influence  to  A.  However, 
E  and  F  are  interested  in  the  contest  in  divers  ways,  and 
they  take  sides  accordingly.  So  the  process  goes,  all 
designed  to  interest  the  audience  intensely,  as  any  hard- 
fought  contest  must — providing,  always,  that  it  does  not 
lapse  into  mere  wrangling  or  "sparring  for  wind." 

The  beginner  will  find  it  helpful  to  examine  the  plot 


OUTLINING  THE   COMPLICATION  6$ 

structure  of  a  number  of  representative  plays.  For  a  good 
American  example,  let  us  take  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas's 
masterpiece,  "The  Witching  Hour." 

"I  snare  an  idea,  arrange  a  half-dozen  characters,  and 
begin  on  the  plot.  The  second  act  comes  out  in  the  writing 
of  the  first,  and  the  third  act  develops  itself  out  of  the 
second."  The  quotation  is  from  Mr.  George  M.  Cohan. 

Obviously,  in  "The  Witching  Hour,"  the  theme 
"snared"  by  Mr.  Thomas  is — to  put  it  most  simply — 
telepathy.  Assuming  that  such  a  phenomenon  actually 
exists,  we  must  at  once  realize  its  dramatic  possibilities. 
We  can  perhaps  fancy  the  author  casting  about  in  memory 
and  imagination  for  characters  fitted  to  work  out  the 
psychic  theme.  According  to  his  own  prescribed  formula, 
quoted  in  Chapter  III  from  a  newspaper  interview  or 
article,  there  will  be  a  proponent,  an  opponent,  a  person 
in  dispute,  and  a  detached  character,  "the  Attorney  for 
the  People." 

Mr.  Thomas  chose  Kentucky  as  the  scene  of  three  of  his 
four  acts.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  knew  an  actual 
Kentuckian  who  was  fitted  to  serve  as  his  proponent. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  the  author  saw  in  the  Goebel 
murder  case  material  suited  to  his  purpose.  It  may  be 
that  the  proverbial  quick  temper  and  readiness  for  gun- 
play associated  with  Kentuckians  had  something  to  do 
with  the  choice.  Doubtless  there  were  numerous  other 
determining  considerations.  At  all  events,  the  play- 
wright's mind  shaped  Jack  Brookfield,  a  gambler,  a  man 
of  physical  and  mental  strength  and  magnetic  personality, 
doubtless  unscholarly  but  by  no  means  uneducated. 


66  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Complication  in  "The  Witching  Hour" 

Toward  the  close  of  a  midnight  supper  in  Brookfield's 
luxurious  house,  Tom  Denning,  a  worthless  gilded  youth, 
comes  to  play  cards.  He  is  told  to  wait  until  the  guests 
have  gone.  Among  them  are  Clay  Whipple,  a  promising 
young  architect,  son  of  the  former  sweetheart  of  the 
gambler,  and  Viola,  Brookfield's  niece.  The  youngsters 
are  in  love;  and  Clay  is  much  exercised  when  he  ascertains 
that  Frank  Hardmuth,  assistant  district  attorney,  has 
proposed  to  Viola.  The  girl  greatly  prefers  Clay,  however ; 
and  the  opposition  the  mothers  of  the  pair  evince  with 
regard  to  the  match  seems  likely  to  prove  brief. 

Hardmuth  comes  to  enlist  for  his  suit  the  support  of 
Brookfield.  At  this  point,  manifestly  Proponent  and 
Opponent  are  for  the  first  time  brought  face  to  face. 
Hardmuth's  moral  fibre  is  too  weak,  the  gambler  tells  him 
in  all  frankness;  the  attorney,  who  has  sworn  to  uphold 
the  law,  is  betraying  his  duty,  and  is  therefore  unfit  to 
become  Viola's  husband.  When  the  angry  lawyer  stoops 
to  belittle  his  young  rival  for  the  girl's  hand,  Brookfield 
retorts,  "Some  day  the  truth'll  come  out  as  to  who  mur- 
dered the  governor-elect  of  this  state.  ...  I  don't  want 
my  niece  mixed  up  in  it." 

In  a  conversation  between  Brookfield  and  Clay's  mother, 
we  are  told  how  Jack's  "profession"  came  between  thetn 
years  ago.  The  obstacle  apparently  still  persists;  Jack 
confesses  his  inability  to  give  up  gambling.  We  get  also 
the  play's  second  reference  to  his  unusual  psychic  power: 
when  he  was  in  college,  Jack  used  to  compel  Helen  to 
write  to  him,  merely  by  fixing  his  mind  upon  the  idea. 


OUTLINING  THE  COMPLICATION  67 

A  belated  visitor,  Justice  Prentice,  formerly  of  Ken- 
tucky, now  of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court,  drops  in. 
After  he  has  astonished  Brookfield  by  casually  answering 
the  latter's  unspoken  questions,  the  jurist  first  voices  the 
thesis  of  the  play:  "Every  thought  is  active — that  is, 
born  of  a  desire — and  travels  from  us — or  it  is  born  of  the 
desire  of  someone  else  and  comes  to  us.  We  send  them 
out — or  we  take  them  in — that  is  all.  .  .  .  If  we  are  idle 
and  empty-headed,  our  brains  are  the  playrooms  for  the 
thoughts  of  others — frequently  rather  bad.  If  we  are 
active,  whether  benevolently  or  malevolently,  our  brains 
are  workshops — power-houses." 

Meanwhile,  the  vapid  Denning,  now  tipsy,  has  been 
mercilessly  teasing  young  Whipple,  who  has  an  inherited 
aversion  to  cat's-eyes.  One  of  these  jewels  Tom  maudlinly 
persists  in  thrusting  into  Clay's  face.  In  a  moment  of 
frenzy  the  latter  youth  snatches  up  the  heavy  ivory  paper 
knife — which  the  audience  has  already  seen  Helen  let  fall 
by  accident — and,  striking  Denning  with  it,  kills  him. 
Hardmuth  has  gone  to  the  telephone,  when  Brookfield 
checks  him,  saying  Clay  himself  shall  have  the  credit  of 
notifying  the  police. 

It  will  be  observed  that  Act  I  is  largely  explanatory. 
The  main  characters  have  ail  been  introduced;  the  theme 
has  been  defined;  through  the  visit  of  the  Justice,  an 
element  of  preparation  has  been  brought  in; — and  the 
battle  of  Brookfield  versus  Hardmuth  is  on.  Clay  Whipple, 
the  "person  in  dispute,"  has  by  his  rashness  put  a  weapon 
into  the  Opponent's  hands.  But  there  is  another  weapon, 
as  yet  unrevealed,  which  chance  is  preparing  for  the 


68  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Proponent's  use.  If  for  a  figure  we  adopt  the  not  inappro- 
priate parlance  of  the  prize  ring,  we  may  say  that  Round 
One  ends  with  the  advantage  on  Hardmuth's  side.  What 
will  happen  in  Round  Two? 

Coincidence  has  it  that  the  appeal  of  Clay  Whipple  for 
a  new  trial,  after  an  unfair  hearing  during  which  he  has 
been  condemned  to  death,  is  taken  to  the  United  States 
Supreme  Court,  and  Justice  Prentice  has  the  deciding 
voice  in  the  matter.  Brookfield,  Helen  Whipple,  and 
Viola  call  on  the  Justice  to  plead  in  behalf  of  Clay.  Coinci- 
dence again  has  it — this  time  in  no  feeble  terms — that 
Helen  should  be  no  other  than  the  daughter  of  Margaret 
Price,  with  whom  Prentice  as  a  youth  was  in  love.  His 
letter  to  the  old  sweetheart,  referring  to  a  duel  he  had 
fought  with  a  man  who  had  frightened  her  with  a  cat's-eye 
jewel,  causes  the  Justice  to  reverse  his  determination  not 
to  grant  Clay  a  rehearing.  In  fact,  Prentice  promises  to 
testify  in  the  lad's  behalf  at  the  second  trial.  Later,  when 
he  is  left  alone  with  Margaret  Price's  handkerchief,  her 
miniature,  and  the  perfume  of  mignonette,  the  jurist — as 
the  clock  strikes  two — is  convinced  that  the  spirit  of  the 
long-dead  woman  has  been  in  that  room  and  has  "  directed 
a  decision  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States." 

So  Round  Two  in  the  fight  is  Jack  Brookfield's  round. 
But  the  battle  is  by  no  means  over:  the  honors  are  merely 
even. 

Again  at  midnight,  we  are  in  Kentucky.  While  Clay 
Whipple's  friends  are  awaiting  the  verdict  after  his  second 
trial,  Brookfield,  thinking  hard,  strives  for  a  telepathic 
influence  over  the  one  apparently  friendly  juryman.  Jack 


OUTLINING  THE  COMPLICATION  69 

has  just  told  the  newspapers  what  he  knows  about  Hard- 
muth's  connection  with  the  murder  of  the  governor-elect. 
The  two  antagonists  again  come  face  to  face,  and  the 
attorney  threatens  the  death  of  the  gambler  if  the  "story" 
is  published.  "I'll  print  it  myself  and  paste  it  on  the 
fences,"  retorts  Brookfield,  resolved  to  thwart  Hard- 
muth's  ambition  to  become  governor,  as  well  as  to  reckon 
with  him  for  the  "hounding  of  Clay  to  the  gallows."  If 
the  youth  is  again  convicted,  there  will  be  an  appeal  to 
the  governor.  What  if  the  governor  were  Hardmuth? 

Brookfield's  efforts  at  a  telepathic  influence  over  the 
juryman  appear  to  have  been  not  in  vain.  Shortly  after 
Jack  has  learned  this  fact,  he  gets  a  warning  that  Hard- 
muth, who  has  now  seen  the  printed  murder  charge,  will 
shoot  on  sight.  This  news  moves  Helen  to  confess  her 
love  for  the  now  reformed  gambler.  To  his  friend  Ellinger 
— a  "comic  relief"  character — and  incidentally  to  the 
audience — Brookfield  explains  that,  when  all  Kentucky  is 
thinking  about  the  charge  against  Hardmuth,  the  general 
thought  cannot  fail  to  reach  the  deliberating  jury.  Mean- 
while, the  newspaper  "story"  has  prevented  the  unscru- 
pulous lawyer's  nomination  for  governor. 

Then  Clay  Whipple  suddenly  returns — acquitted. 
While  his  friends  are  rejoicing,  Hardmuth  rushes  in  and 
thrusts  a  revolver  against  Brookfield's  body.  Again  Jack 
resorts  to  dynamic  thought,  with  the  result  that  the 
enraged  attorney,  not  able  even  to  hold  the  weapon  in  his 
hand,  recoiling  slowly,  says,  "I'd  like  to  know — how  in 
hell  you  did  that — to  me." 

It  appears  that  Round  Three  has  ended  with  the 


70  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Opponent  down,  if  not  quite  out.  So  far  as  conflict  is  con- 
cerned, there  is,  in  fact,  little  to  carry  tense  interest  over 
into  the  last  act.  However,  the  referee's  decision  has  not 
yet  been  formally  announced;  and  for  this  reason — 
among  others — the  spectators  are  entirely  willing  to  stay 
on. 

For  the  last  time  at  the  witching  hour  we  find  ourselves 
in  Brookfield's  library.  When  Clay  Whipple  is  tempted 
to  revenge  himself  on  Hardmuth  by  reporting  for  a 
newspaper  the  former  prosecutor's  trial  on  the  murder 
charge,  Jack  rebukes  the  young  man  and  tells  him  of  the 
mental  poison  engendered  by  hatred.  In  spite  of  the 
women's  protests,  Brookfield  by  suggestion  cures  Clay  of 
his  senseless  antipathy  to  the  cat's-eye  and  sends  him  to 
fetch  to  the  house  Hardmuth,  whose  hiding-place  has 
been  discovered  by  Ellinger.  While  waiting,  the  Pro- 
ponent first  practically  buys  his  antagonist's  release  from 
Ellinger  and  then  demonstrates,  to  the  latter's  profound 
amazement,  that  it  is  possible  by  telepathy  to  read  the 
cards  in  another  player's  hand. 

When  Clay  returns  with  Hardmuth,  Jack  declares  his 
resolve  to  help  the  attorney  flee  the  state.  "Hardmuth 
planned  the  assassination  of  the  governor-elect  exactly  as 
I  dreamed  it,"  Brookfield  explains;  "and  a  guilty  thought 
is  almost  as  criminal  as  a  guilty  deed.  I've  always  had  a 
considerable  influence  over  that  poor  devil  that's  running 
away  tonight,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  before  the  Judge  of 
both  of  us  the  guilt  isn't  mostly  mine."  And  Helen 
promises  to  stand  by  Jack  as  he  has  stood  by  her 
boy. 


OUTLINING  THE   COMPLICATION  71 

Simplicity  and  Adaptation 

In  considering  this  basic  narrative,  here  so  roughly 
sketched,  the  student  will  note  first  of  all  its  simplicity 
and  its  adaptation  to  both  thesis  and  characters.  Brook- 
field  and  Hardmuth  fight  over  Clay  Whipple's  life  and 
happiness.  The  protagonist's  advantage  lies  largely — if 
by  no  means  entirely — in  the  fact  that  he  employs  the 
potency  of  dynamic  thought  in  his  style  of  warfare.  The 
antagonists  clash  first  over  Viola  and  immediately  there- 
after over  her  lover.  The  attorney's  profession  and  posi- 
tion give  him  unusual  opportunities  of  offense  and  defense. 
It  is  true  that  luck  comes  to  the  gambler's  aid,  in  the 
matter  of  coincidence  already  noted;  but  we  feel  that, 
even  if  Justice  Prentice  had  not  happened  to  be  the  man 
who  had  once  loved  and  fought  for  Clay  Whipple's  grand- 
mother, nevertheless  the  resourceful  Brookfield  would 
have  found  means  material  or  psychic  of  overcoming  his 
opponent.  Winning  the  youth's  freedom,  moreover,  the 
gambler  wins  back  his  own  self-respect  and  the  love  of  the 
woman  his  heart  desires. 

Three  or  four  characters  are  used  to  conduct  the  funda- 
mental action;  the  others  are  essentially  minor  figures, 
some  of  them,  like  Justice  Henderson,  Colonel  Bagley, 
and  Emmett,  existing  merely  for  purposes  of  exposition 
and  atmosphere.  Mrs.  Whipple's  onslaught  on  the  mind 
and  sensibilities  of  Justice  Prentice  in  Act  II  is  obviously 
under  the  explicit  direction  of  Brookfield.  Tom  Denning 
comes  into  the  piece  solely  to  bring  out  Clay's  congenital 
antipathy,  and,  by  dying,  to  tie  the  first  hard  knot  in  the 


72  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

web  of  conflict.  Lew  Ellinger,  as  has  been  noted,  is  for 
comic  relief.  Furthermore,  he  shares  with  Justice  Prentice 
the  r61e  of  "Attorney  for  the  People"  prescribed  by  the 
author.  Viola  is  only  a  temporary  bone  of  contention; 
her  mother,  too,  merely  a  pawn  in  the  game. 

Jack  antagonizes  Frank,  who  wants  Viola.  Clay,  who 
is  to  have  her,  puts  himself  in  Frank's  power.  Jack  gains 
his  friend  and  fellow-psychic,  Prentice,  as  a  potent 
auxiliary.  Jack  strikes  a  knock-out  blow  with  his  murder 
charge  against  Frank.  Frank  in  his  extremity  would  kill 
Jack,  but  the  latter  by  sheer  strength  of  thought  completes 
his  conquest  over  his  opponent.  Then  Jack  rounds  out 
his  achievements  in  the  realm  of  the  pseudo-scientific  by 
abolishing  Clay's  fear  and  hatred  and  by  taking  on  him- 
self a  share  in  Hardmuth's  guilt.  That  is  the  plot  in  its 
bare  essentials.  The  student  will  have  no  difficulty  in 
tracing  its  movement,  the  crossing  of  its  strands,  the  dis- 
entangling of  its  threads. 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  this  somewhat  extended  dis- 
cussion of  a  single  example,  little  has  been  said  of  the  all- 
important  elements  of  characterization  and  dialogue. 
Both,  however,  may  well  be  studied  in  the  case  of  "The 
Witching  Hour."  Here  we  have  been  concerned  as 
exclusively  as  possible  with  plot  and  its  complication. 
There  may  be  better  plots  in  modern  drama  than  the  one 
here  analyzed:  certainly  there  are  many  worse.  At  ail 
events,  the  student  should  diligently  familiarize  himself 
with  the  mechanism  of  many  typical  plays,  to  the  end 
that  the  art  of  plotting  may  be  mastered  by  the  best  pos- 


OUTLINING  THE  COMPLICATION  73 

sible  means  next  to  the  actual  construction  of  plots 
themselves,  and — for  this  is  important — with  a  view  to 
making  original  plots,  in  due  time. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

NOTE:  Skill  in  plotting  comes  from  much  plotting, 
even  in  those  who  are  born  intriguers.  Therefore  practice 
a  great  deal.  Do  not  now  concern  yourself  with  prepara- 
tion, suspense,  climax,  and  such  other  elements  of  good 
plot-work  as  are  discussed  later,  but  use  these  ideas  only 
as  you  now  understand  them.  Later  you  will  be  able  to 
perfect  these  preliminary  plot-drafts  by  revision. 

1.  In  about  three  hundred  words,  make  an  outline  of  a 
plot  in  which  the  whole  action  is  manifestly  preparing  for 
a  great  struggle  in  the  last  act,  with  a  swiftly-brought- 
about  result. 

2.  Briefly  outline  a  plot  in  which  the  complication 
occurred  before  the  play  opens,  and  in  which,  therefore, 
the  whole  play  is  made  up  of  the  conflict  of  forces  resulting 
from  the  complication. 

3.  Briefly  outline  a  plot  in  which  the  complication 
occurs  almost  at  the  outstart  of  the  first  act. 

4.  Briefly  outline  a  plot  in  which  you  handle  the  com- 
plication to  suit  yourself. 

NOTE:  In  the  foregoing  four  plots  do  not  overlook  the 
value  of  contributory  minor  complications,  but  do  not  let 
them  in  any  sense  rival  the  major  complications — make 
them  actually  contributory. 

5.  Point  out  the  complications  in  five  modern  plays. 


74  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WKITING 

6.  Briefly  outline  the  plots  of  three  modern  plays, 
showing  clearly  how  the  pivotal  points  are  placed  and 
how  the  determining  forces  move. 

7.  In  "The  Witching  Hour"  find  fourteen  references  to 
the  basic  idea  of  the  play. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE    EXPOSITION 

He  [Alfieri]  adds  that  he  has  made  it  an  invariable  rule  to 
introduce  the  action  by  lively  and  passionate  dialogue,  so  far 
as  is  consistent  with  the  opening  of  the  piece,  and  between 
personages  who  have  a  direct  interest  in  the  plot. — J.  C.  L.  de 
SISMONDI,  The  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe. 

It  is  Scribe's  habit,  in  the  plays  which  are  to  extend  through 
five  acts,  to  employ  the  whole  of  the  first  one  in  patiently  and 
ingeniously  laying  out  the  strands  of  the  intrigue  to  follow.  For 
the  time  being  he  does  not  concern  himself  with  amusing  the 
public;  he  contents  himself  with  putting  it  in  touch  with  the 
situation.  It  is  necessary  that  such  and  such  events  be  known — 
he  relates  them;  to  a  first  account  of  them  succeeds  another. 
It  is  necessary  that  you  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  personages 
who  are  to  conduct  the  action — he  presents  them  to  you  one 
by  one:  this  is  Mr.  So-and-so;  he  has  such  and  such  a  character; 
he  is  capable,  things  falling  out  thus,  of  behaving  himself  in  this 
or  that  manner. — FRANCISQUE  SARCEY,  Quarante  Ans  de  Theatre. 

I  remember  reading  somewhere  that  "the  comedy  of 
'Richelieu,'  which  has  held  the  stage  for  seventy  years, 
contains  action,  story,  character,  situation,  suspense,  con- 
trast, and  picture,  and  it  blends  humor  and  pathos;  while 
the  central  character  is  unique,  sympathetic,  essentially 
human,  and  continuously  interesting."  That  description 
would  at  first  glance  seem  to  epitomize  all  that  is  most 
desirable  in  drama;  though,  on  reflection,  one  might 
reasonably  add  such  elements  as  surprise,  climax,  har- 
mony, logic,  and  truth  to  life. 


70  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

Undoubtedly  the  fundamental  qualities  are  action  and 
feeling.  As  the  rhymester  puts  it: 

"If  you  desire  to  write  a  play, 

Then  here's  the  vital  notion: 
Each  act  and  scene  should  well  display 
Both  motion  and  emotion." 

And  again: 

"In  plays,  you  see,  Demosthenes'  old  law 
Once  more  will  fit  the  case  without  a  flaw. 
Upon  the  rostrum  and  the  stage,  we  find, 
'Tis  action,  action,  action  chains  the  mind." 

The  playwright,  having  selected  his  starting-point  and 
his  main  characters,  and  having  in  fancy  and  in  plan 
allowed  these  latter  in  their  juxtaposition  naturally  to 
work  out  a  certain  progressive  action,  which  will  include  a 
complication  of  motives  and  conflicting  lines  of  conduct, 
reactions  and  clashes — having  come  thus  far,  he  must  set 
to  work  to  reduce  this  movement  to  a  definite  plot,  and 
then  to  body  forth  the  plot  in  the  most  effective  and  stir- 
ring manner. 

The  Route  of  the  Play 

As  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas  puts  it,  there  is  the  route  of  the 
play  to  be  considered,  and  this  route  is  "much  like  a 
trajectory.  It  springs  upward  and  outward  in  a  fine,  easy, 
even  curve,  mounts  higher  and  higher  to  a  final  sharp 
crest,  and  then,  very  close  to  the  end,  drops  suddenly 
off."  It  is  the  path  of  the  sky-rocket. 


THE   EXPOSITION  77 

"This  route,"  continues  Mr.  Thomas,  "this  line,  is 
made  up  of  short  scenes  that  partake  pretty  much  of  the 
nature  of  the  whole.  Each  must  have  its  similar  rise  and 
stroke.  At  first,  when  the  story  is  unfolding,  when  the 
audience  is  not  yet  thoroughly  keyed  up,  and  there  are  at 
the  same  time  so  many  new  things  to  grasp,  these  scenes 
will  be  relatively  long  and  thin  curves.  As  they  reach  the 
summit  of  the  route,  they  will  thicken  and  shorten.  Their 
importance,  their  weight,  the  blow  that  they  give,  will  be 
steadily  greater." 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  playwright  has  reached  that 
stage  of  his  work  when,  having  mapped  out  his  drama, 
time-scheme  and  act-division,  and  being  certain  that  he 
has  sufficient  material  for  an  evening's  diversion,  he  finds 
that  he  must  make  a  beginning  in  the  actual  writing  of  his 
play.  His  first  problem  is  that  of  setting  forth  his  charac- 
ters and  conveying  to  the  audience  such  preliminary 
information  concerning  their  past  history  as  is  necessary 
to  a  speedy  comprehension  of  what  is  to  follow.  This  is 
what  is  commonly  called  the  exposition. 

An  American  novelist  is  quoted  as  asserting  that  "there 
are  two  types  of  modern  play:  one  in  which  the  hero  and 
heroine  marry,  and  all  their  troubles  are  over;  and  the 
other  in  which  they  marry,  and  all  their  troubles  begin." 
At  any  rate,  hero  and  heroine,  or  at  least  leading  male  and 
female  characters,  the  dramatist  must  deal  with;  and 
they  and  the  conditions  in  which  they  exist,  to  begin  with, 
must  quickly  be  made  clear. 

"The  playwright  has  no  time  to  lose  after  the  curtain 


78  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

has  once  risen,"  Professor  Bliss  Perry  tells  us,1  asserting 
that  "every  moment  of  opening  action  counts  heavily  for 
or  against  his  chances  of  interesting  the  audience  in  the 
personages  of  the  play."  Conversely,  other  writers 
on  the  subject  assure  us  that  it  is  futile  to  say  any- 
thing of  importance  during  the  first  five  or  ten  minutes 
of  the  play,  since  that  period  will  be  one  of  disturb- 
ance caused  by  late-comers  and  by  the  various  processes 
of  self-adjustment  on  the  part  of  the  spectators. 
However,  the  whole  matter  depends  pretty  largely  on  the 
play  itself.  Late-comers  not  only  will  fail  to  disturb  the 
audience  greatly  but  will,  indeed,  be  inconsiderable  in 
number,  if  the  drama  is  from  its  earliest  moment  suffi- 
ciently absorbing.  It  is  said  that,  during  the  first  season 
of  "On  Trial,"  spectators  often  ran  down  the  aisles  in 
order  to  reach  their  seats  before  the  curtain  rose.  The  play 
was  so  constructed  as  to  grip  the  audience  from  the  open- 
ing instant.  Five  or  ten  minutes  of  preliminary  sweet 
nothings,  on  the  contrary,  will  inevitably  be  accompanied 
by  seat-slamming,  programme-rustling,  and  the  buzz  of 
whispered  conversation. 

In  connection  with  a  recent  vaudeville  playlet,  there 
was  printed  in  the  programme  the  following  note:  "The 
audience  is  requested  to  follow  very  closely  the  dialogue 
from  the  very  beginning  of  the  play,  as  it  all  has  bearing 
on  situations  following  later  in  the  act."  Such  an  ad- 
monition would  seem  to  confess  an  inadequacy  in  the 
exposition.  The  opening  speeches  in  this  particular 
sketch,  by  the  way,  were  no  more  indispensable  to  a 

1  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction. 


THE  EXPOSITION  79 

comprehension  of  the  plot  than  is  usual  in  one-act 
plays.  The  note  was  merely  a  bit  of  over-cautiousness. 
In  good  dramaturgy  the  only  way  for  the  author  to  obtain 
the  general  attention  is  by  his  skill  to  command  it. 

Methods  of  Exposition 

An  old-fashioned  method  of  presenting  the  exposition 
utilized  a  conversation  between  two  characters,  perhaps  a 
pair  of  courtiers  or  of  menials,  who  told  each  other  facts 
which  they  and  the  audience  well  knew  were  familiar  to 
both  speakers.  Such  a  device,  in  fact,  is  employed  in  so 
recent  a  play  as  Thompson  Buchanan's  melodrama,  "Life." 
And  in  even  so  carefully  constructed  a  piece  of  dramaturgy 
as  Mr.  Edward  Knoblauch's  "  Marie-Odile,"  we  find  the 
novice  and  the  Mother  Superior  re-informing  each  other — 
for  our  benefit — of  the  circumstances  of  the  young  girl's 
upbringing  in  the  convent. 

Formerly,  French  drama  provided  a  confidant  for  the 
hero,  a  confidante  for  the  heroine,  largely  for  expository  pur- 
poses. Various  critics,  including  Mr.  William  Archer,  have 
remarked  how,  in  "His  House  in  Order,"  Sir  Arthur 
Pinero  hits  upon  the  scheme  of  having  a  reporter  interview 
the  private  secretary  of  a  leading  character — a  device 
similar  to  that  employed  by  Mr.  William  Dean  Howells  in 
"The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham."  Since  the  journalist  lacks 
the  information  to  begin  with,  we  can  listen  while 
he"  acquires  it  and  not  feel  that  probability  has  been 
strained.  The  scene,  however,  is  none  the  less  non-dram- 
atic; though  the  arrangement  is  more  admirable  than 
that  of  the  traditional  footman  and  the  parlor-maid,  who 


80  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

have  opened  such  hosts  of  plays  by  gossiping  about  master 
and  mistress.  Many  a  first  act,  too,  has  been  wearisomely 
delayed  while  two  characters  have  sat  on  a  bench  or  a  log, 
and  one  has  told  the  other  "the  story  of  his  life."  No 
matter  that  they  rose  and  "crossed"  from  time  to  time, 
nor  even  that  the  orchestra  at  certain  emotional  moments 
in  the  narrative  discoursed  "creepy"  music;  the  story- 
telling was  only  narrative  and  not  drama. 

In  recent  years  the  telephone  has  supplied  so  facile  a 
substitute  for  the  confidant  that  its  use  in  a  new  play  now 
is  likely  to  arouse  ridicule,  especially  since  the  device  was 
satirized,  along  with  many  others  equally  overworked,  by 
Sir  James  M.  Barrie  in  "A  Slice  of  Life." 

Mr.  Brander  Matthews1  truly  says  that  the  exposition 
"is  one  of  the  tests  by  which  we  can  guage  the  dexterity 
of  a  dramatist,  and  by  which  we  can  measure  his  command 
over  the  resources  of  his  craft.  Some  playwrights  have  to 
perfection  a  knack  of  taking  the  playgoer  right  into  the 
middle  of  things  in  the  opening  scenes  of  the  first  act,  with  a 
simplicity  apparently  so  straightforward  that  he  has  never 
a  suspicion  of  the  artfulness  whereby  he  has  been  supplied 
with  all  sorts  of  information."  These  attainments  are 
certainly  the  ones  most  worth  striving  for  in  expository 
writing:  to  get  in  medias  res  with  the  least  possible  delay, 
and  to  convey  the  information  "sugar-coated." 

Time  and  Manner  of  Exposition 

The  exposition  belongs,  of  course,  as  early  as  possible  in 
the  first  act.    In  the  beginning  the  audience  is  naturally 
1 A  Study  of  the  Drama. 


THE  EXPOSITION  8 1 

patient  and  willing,  if  need  be,  to  wait  a  while  for  the 
action  to  get  under  way.  Later,  when  the  story  has  been 
fairly  started,  anything  that  obviously  holds  it  up  will  be 
resented.  Of  course,  the  amount  of  exposition  required 
varies  with  the  play;  but  it  stands  to  reason  that  the  sooner 
the  dramatic  struggle  can  be  broached  and  the  emotional 
interest  of  the  audience  aroused,  the  better  will  be  the 
chances  for  success. 

It  is  true  that  a  number  of  successful  dramatists  still 
employ  something  of  the  more  leisurely  method  of  Scribe, 
which  gives  over  much  of  the  first  act  to  the  process  of 
simply  laying  the  foundation;  witness  "The  Hawk," 
"The  Phantom  Rival,"  and  "Outcast."  More  and  more, 
however,  it  is  becoming  the  fashion  to  combine  the  exposi- 
tion with  the  action,  or  at  least  to  start  with  a  scene  of 
real  dramatic  movement  and  then  to  convey  the  needed 
information,  disguised  as  action.  Commentators  rarely 
fail  to  point  out  that  Shakespeare  begins  "Romeo  and 
Juliet"  with  a  quarrel  between  the  servitors  of  the 
Montagues  and  the  Capulets,  which  concretely  illustrates 
the  feud  of  the  two  houses.  Thereafter  the  characteriz- 
ing dialogue  of  Montague,  Lady  Montague,  Benvolio,  and 
Romeo  proceeds  apace  with  a  conversational  exposition. 

First  of  all,  then,  the  exposition  should  be  clear;  second, 
it  should  be  brief;  and,  third,  it  should,  if  possible,  be 
emotionalized  by  combination  with  the  action.  Failing 
this  last,  there  is  the  device  of  the  general  conversation 
between  shifting  characters,  like  that  which  Mr.  George 
M.  Cohan  employs  in  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford." 
The  fragmentary  and  frequently  interrupted  dialogue  at 


82  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

least  gives  the  impression  of  movement  and  of  actuality. 
An  excellent  example  of  this  sort  of  exposition  is  afforded 
by  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas's  play,  "As  a  Man  Thinks." 
The  problem  before  the  writer  is,  first,  to  introduce  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Seelig,  their  daughter  Vedah,  and  her  betrothed, 
Benjamin  De  Lota,  all  Jews;  and  Vedah's  other  lover* 
Julian  Burrill,  and  Frank  Clayton  and  Mrs.  Clayton, 
Gentiles.  Second,  to  make  it  known  that  Clayton,  who 
has  already  been  forgiven  by  his  wife  for  one  infidelity,  has 
since  been  involved  in  an  affair  with  a  Parisian  model. 
Third,  to  convey  the  further  information  that  De  Lota, 
not  only  was  formerly  a  suitor  of  Mrs.  Clayton's,  but  also 
has  served  a  term  in  a  French  prison  after  conviction  on  a 
criminal  charge.  The  author,  to  the  expressed  delight  of 
many  critics,  deftly  manages  the  revelation  of  this  infor- 
mation bit  by  bit,  through  a  series  of  fragmentary  con- 
versations, allowing  the  significant  facts  to  reach  the 
audience  at  the  same  time  that  they  impinge  upon  the 
consciousness  of  certain  characters  in  whom  they  must 
necessarily  produce  a  strong  emotional  reaction.  It  is, 
accordingly,  of  interest  not  only  to  knqw  that  De  Lota 
was  once  a  prisoner,  but  also  to  observe  the  effect  of  the 
revelation  upon  his  fiancee;  not  only  to  learn  of  Clayton's 
second  lapse  from  marital  fidelity,  but  also  to  note  the 
manner  in  which  his  wife  receives  the  information.  Fur- 
thermore, the  exposition  is  skilfully  unified  through  con- 
nection with  Burrill's  figurine  of  the  dancing  girl,  for  which 
Mimi,  the  French  model,  posed.  As  the  statuette  is  new, 
all  comers  are  instigated  to  discuss  it  and  so  to  refer  to  its 
original,  who  is  further  identified  by  means  of  a  photograph 
brought  by  Burrill. 


THE  EXPOSITION  83 

Disregarding  for  the  moment  the  question  of  the  coinci- 
dence involved — which  will  be  considered  in  a  later 
chapter — we  cannot  but  realize  that  Mr.  Thomas's  method 
of  exposition  in  this  play  is  masterly  in  its  effectiveness. 
An  even  more  striking  instance  is  to  be  found  in  Mr. 
Elmer  L.  Reizenstein's  "On  Trial."  In  fact,  it  would  be 
hard  to  cite  a  parallel  for  the  gripping  tenseness  of  the 
opening  instant  of  this  melodrama — the  scene  in  the 
courtroom,  the  trial  in  full  progress,  the  prisoner  on  the 
verge  of  conviction.  While  admitting  that  in  a  sense 
"On  Trial"  is  a  "freak"  play— "a  story  told  backward"— 
and  therefore  abnormal,  we  should  feel  nevertheless  that 
its  example  is  worth  imitating  in  respect  at  least  of  this 
initial  interest  and  clarity. 

There  is,  indeed,  no  valid  reason  why  almost  any  play 
nowadays,  whether  of  story  or  of  characters,  should  not 
set  off  its  indispensable  sky-rocket  plot  within  a  very  few 
moments  after  the  curtain  first  rises.  We  have  passed 
the  period  of  lazy  devices  in  this  process,  and  of  leisurely 
and  patent  procedure.  Exposition  not  only  should  be 
clear;  it  should  be  brief  and  dramatic. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

i.  Draw  as  carefully  as  you  can  a  diagram  of  your  con- 
ception of  Mr.  Thomas's  "trajectory,"  pages  76  and  77. 
-2.  In  your  own  words  define  the  exposition. 

3.  What  methods  of  exposition,  other  than  those  noted 
in  the  text,  have  you  observed? 

4.  Criticise  one  of  them. 


84  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

5.  Try  to  suggest  a  fresh  device  for  presenting  the 
exposition. 

6.  Invent  a  fundamental  opening  situation  for  a  plot; 
then  give  the  exposition  in  outline,  saying  how  you  would 
present  it  to  the  audience. 

7.  Could  your  plan  profitably  be  altered  so  as  to  work 
in  the  expository  information  along  with  the  action? 

8.  Make  a  rapid  but  well  considered  draft  of  so  much 
of  the  first  act  as  would  be  required  to  include  all  the 
exposition. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE   MANAGEMENT   OF   PREPARATION 
IN   THE    PLOT 

The  liner  with  hastily  constructed  boilers  will  flounder  when 
she  comes  to  essay  the  storm;  and  no  stoking  however  vigorous, 
no  oiling  however  eager,  if  delayed  till  then,  will  avail  to  aid 
her  to  ride  through  successfully.  It  is  not  the  time  to  strengthen 
a  wall  when  the  hurricane  threatens;  prop  and  stay  will  not 
brace  it  then.  Then  the  thing  that  tells  is  the  plodding,  slow, 
patient,  brick-by-brick  work,  that  only  half  shows  down  there 
at  the  foot  half-hidden  in  the  grass,  obscure,  unnoted.  No  genius 
is  necessary  for  this  sort  of  work,  only  great  patience  and  a 
willingness  to  plod,  for  the  time  being. — FRANK  NORMS,  The 
Mechanics  of  Fiction. 

There  is  no  idle  detail;  not  one  that  lacks  its  utility  in 
the  action;  no  word  that  is  not  to  have  at  an  appointed  moment 
its  repercussion  in  the  comedy.  And  this  word — I  do  not  know 
how  the  thing  is  done — it  is  the  dramatic  author's  gift — this  word 
buries  itself  in  our  memory  and  reappears  just  at  the  moment 
when  it  is  to  throw  a  bright  light  on  some  incident  which  we 
were  not  expecting,  but  which  nevertheless  seems  quite  natural, 
which  charms  us  at  the  same  time  by  the  fact  that  it  has  been 
unforseen  and  by  the  impression  that  we  ought  to  have  fore- 
seen it. — FRANCISQUE  SARCEY,  Quarante  Ans  de  Theatre.  (The 
reference  is  to  Monsieur  Feydeau's  "La  Dame  de  chez  Maxim.") 

.With  the  exposition  set  forth,  and  his  chief  characters 
introduced,  the  playwright  is  face  to  face  with  the  develop- 
ment and  the  complication  of  his  intrigue.  If,  in  fact,  he 
has  not  already  largely  done  so,  he  must  now  proceed  with 
the  interweaving  of  the  strands  of  character  and  conduct. 


86  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Here  again  logic  is  his  chief  guide.  What  his  people  are 
and  the  conditions  in  which  they  are  placed  will  determine 
both  what  they  will  do  and  their  reactions  from  the  behav- 
ior of  others.  The  playwright  must  first  be  sure  that  the 
personages  do  things  that  would  reasonably  and  naturally 
result.  But  he  must  also  select  from  this  field  of  possible 
conduct  the  deeds  that  will  develop  his  plot  so  that  it  may 
best  illustrate  his  theme,  or  at  least  so  that  his  story  will 
be  of  the  utmost  interest. 

At  the  same  time  that  the  dramatist  is  informing  his 
audience  of  events  that  have  happened  in  the  past,  he 
should  be  making  ready  for  the  things  that  are  to  occur  in 
the  future.  This  is  the  "art  of  preparation,"  emphasized 
by  Dumas  fits,  as  the  art  of  the  theatre.  I  do  not  mean 
that  a  play  should  develop  along  a  route  which  everyone 
foresees  after  the  first  few  lines.  Under  such  conditions 
there  can  be  no  suspense,  to  say  nothing  of  surprise.  But 
many  matters  that  are  to  come  up  later  require  advance 
explanation,  in  order  that,  when  they  do  happen,  they 
may  be  instantly  and  completely  understood. 

In  "The  Whole  Art  of  the  Stage,"  which  was  written  at 
Cardinal  Richelieu's  command,  the  Abbe"  d'Aubignac 
treats  this  subject  at  some  length.  He  says,  in  the  words 
of  the  quaint  translation  of  1684: 

"But  there  are  another  sort  of  things,  which  are  to  be 
laid  as  a  foundation  to  build  others  upon,  according  to 
the  Rules  of  Probability,  and  yet  nevertheless  do  not  at 
all  discover  these  second  ones,  which  they  are  to  produce; 
not  only  because  there  is  no  necessity  they  should  come 
to  pass  in  consequence  of  the  first;  but  also  because  the 


THE  MANAGEMENT  OF  PREPARATION  IN  THE  PLOT     87 

first  are  shew'd  with  colours  and  pretexts  so  probable, 
according  to  the  state  of  the  Affairs  of  the  Stage,  that  the 
Minds  of  the  Spectators  pass  them  over,  not  thinking  that 
from  thence  there  can  spring  any  new  Incident,  so  that 
the  preparation  of  an  Incident,  is  not  to  tell  or  do  any- 
thing that  can  discover  it,  but  rather  that  may  give  occa- 
sion to  it  without  discovering  it;  and  all  the  Art  of  the 
Poet  consists  in  finding  Colours  and  Pretexts  to  settle 
these  Preparations,  so,  that  the  Spectator  may  be  con- 
vinc'd,  that  that  is  not  thrown  into  the  Body  of  the  Play 
for  any  other  design  than  what  appears  to  him.  .  .  . 

"But  the  main  thing  to  be  remembred,  is,  that  all  that 
is  said  or  done  as  a  Preparative  or  Seed  for  things  to  come, 
must  have  so  apparent  a  Reason,  and  so  powerful  a 
Colour  to  be  said  and  done  in  that  place,  that  it  may  seem 
to  have  been  introduc'd  only  for  that,  and  that  it  never 
give  a  hint  to  prevent  [foretell]  those  Incidents,  which  it 
is  to  prepare." 

Examples  of  Preparation 

Preparation  is  of  various  kinds.  It  may  be  an  impres- 
sive prophecy,  a  word  let  fall  unwittingly,  a  stammering 
admission  wrung  from  a  guilty  conscience,  or  even  a  bit  of 
"business"  or  pantomime.  A  letter  is  brought  in  and 
laid  on  the  mantel,  to  be  discovered  later  at  a  crucial 
instant  by  an  involved  personage.  The  mannerism, 
perhaps  the  antipathy,  of  a  character  is  briefly  mentioned 
at  an  early  moment  in  order  that,  when  it  presently  dis- 
plays itself  with  significant  consequences,  we  may  be  ready 
to  comprehend  and  to  recognize  it.  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas 


88  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

explains  how,  in  his  play,  "The  Witching  Hour,"  he  pre- 
pared even  his  "properties"  for  the  murder  that  was  to  be 
committed.  "A  dagger,"  he  says,  "would  have  been  too 
lethal,  would  have  startled  the  audience  too  much.  So  a 
two-foot  ivory  paper-knife  from  my  own  desk  served 
instead.  The  audience  had  to  learn  three  things  about  it 
— its  position,  its  purpose,  and  its  ability  to  kill.  The  first 
two  were  accomplished  by  having  a  girl  pick  it  up  to  cut 
a  magazine;  the  third  by  a  woman's  knocking  it  to  the 
floor,  where  it  made  a  resounding  bump."  All  this  prep- 
aration is  merely  to  avoid  puzzling  the  audience  with  a 
minor  question  at  a  critical  moment — a  precaution  upon 
which  may  easily  depend  the  success  of  a  play. 

In  "Kick  In,"  to  cite  a  recent  instance,  not  only  is  a 
revolver  displayed,  remarked,  and  ostentatiously  placed 
in  a  drawer,  but  a  hypodermic  syringe  filled  with  cocaine  is 
discussed  at  length  so  that  the  spectators  will  promptly 
understand,  when  both  are  used  during  a  fight  which 
serves  as  the  climax  of  the  play. 

Again,  in  "Under  Cover"  much  is  said  in  advance  about 
a  very  conspicuous  burglar  alarm,  which  is  to  be  sounded 
later  at  a  crucial  moment.  So  emphatic  was  this  bit  of 
"preparation,"  indeed,  that  Mr.  Channing  Pollock  said  he 
waited  through  the  rest  of  the  act  to  see  that  burglar  alarm 
used. 

The  Triangle  of  Information 

Mr.  Thomas  refers  to  what  is  practically  another  phase  of 
preparation,  when  he  cites  examples  of  Scribe's  "  triangle 
of  information."  "In  one  of  his  pieces  a  priest  tells  a 


THE  MANAGEMENT  OF   PREPARATION  IN  THE  PLOT      89 

casual  acquaintance,  in  answer  to  queries  as  to  the  respon- 
sibilities of  the  confessional,  that  the  first  man  he  ever 
confessed  had  owned  to  a  murder.  Then  the  principal 
character  of  the  play  comes  in,  says  'Good  day'  to  the 
priest,  and,  turning  to  the  other  man,  explains:  'You 
know,  I  was  the  first  penitent  Father  Blank  ever  had.' 
In  a  flash  the  audience  is  startled,  stirred,  and  at  the  same 
time  pleased.  Little  bits  of  recognition,  such  as  that, 
make  the  spectator  feel  that  he  has  discovered  something." 

On  his  wedding  day  Mr.  Smith  puts  ten  one-hundred- 
dollar  bills  in  an  envelope,  which  his  "best  man"  is  to 
convey  to  the  officiating  clergyman.  Perhaps  years  after- 
ward, at  a  dinner,  various  ministers  get  to  naming  the 
sums  they  have  received  as  marriage  fees,  and  Mr.  Smith's 
rector  remarks  that  the  largest  amount  ever  given  him  was 
one  hundred  dollars.  Naturally  Smith  is  startled.  He 
questions  the  clergyman  in  private  and  is  ready  to  lodge 
an  accusation  against  his  groomsman.  The  information 
has  been  conveyed  by  means  of  the  dramatic  triangle. 

Mr.  Thomas  himself  makes  a  telling  use  of  this  device  in 
the  first  act  of  "  As  a  Man  Thinks."  Burrill  has  told  Vedah 
Seelig  how  Mimi,  the  model,  out  of  gratitude  to  the  man 
who  had  got  her  a  place  in  Antoine's  theatre,  had  dragged 
off  her  friends  to  the  court  house  in  an  effort  to  free  that 
man,  when  he  was  on  trial  upon  a  criminal  charge.  Some 
time  later  Benjamin  De  Lota,  Vedah's  fiancg,  arrives  and, 
becoming  interested  in  Burrill's  statuette  of  Mimi,  casu- 
ally remarks  that  he  got  the  model  her  place  with  Antoine. 
Vedah,  like  the  audience,  is  acquiring  information  in  a 
startling,  indirect  fashion. 


pO  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Again,  in  Act  II  of  the  same  play,  Judge  Hoover,  coming 
to  the  home  of  his  son-in-law  Clayton,  relates  how  he  has 
just  chanced  to  see  DeLota  entering  his  lodging-house  in 
company  with  a  woman.  This  woman  dropped  on  the 
pavement  a  libretto  of  "Aida"  which  Hoover  has  brought 
with  him.  As  it  happens  that  the  audience  has  just  seen 
Clayton  himself  mark  this  libretto  and  hand  it  to  his  wife, 
who  went  off  in  company  with  De  Lota,  presumably  to  the 
opera,  the  knowledge  of  her  apparent  infidelity  is  thus 
conveyed  to  both  husband  and  audience  through  a  triangle 
of  information.  If  the  co-incidence  here  involved  is 
credible,  certainly  the  bit  of  preparation  has  served  its 
purpose  well. 

For  still  another  example  of  this  device,  take  Mr.  W.  C. 
De  Mille's  play,  "The  Woman."  A  political  boss  and  his 
son-in-law  have  set  out  to  ruin  the  reputation  of  an 
unknown  woman  once  the  mistress  of  a  rival.  This 
woman's  identity  is  revealed  to  both  the  hotel  telephone 
operator  and  the  audience  when,  first,  her  former  lover 
calls  her  up  to  warn  her,  and,  a  few  minutes  later,  the 
boss's  son-in-law  calls  up  his  own  wife:  both  ask  for  the 
same  number. 

Explanation  in  Advance 

Naturally  there  are  many  sorts  of  preparation  other 
than  those  just  cited.  The  general  principle  is  that, 
whatever  is  to  be  abruptly  utilized  at  some  important 
later  moment  in  the  play — whether  character,  "property," 
or  fact — must  in  advance  be  made  clear  and  memorable 
to  the  audience,  but  not  destructive  of  surprise.  A  crucial 


THE  MANAGEMENT  OF  PREPARATION  IN  THE  PLOT      91 

instant  in  a  dramatic  conflict  is  manifestly  no  time  for 
explaining  comparative  trifles.  Necessary  explanations 
should  always  be  made  while  there  is  yet  leisure,  and 
when  emotional  tension  need  not  suffer  by  interruption. 

The  thing  for  which  the  preparation  is  made  may  be, 
for  example,  simply  a  bit  of  dialogue.  The  most  pleas- 
urable moment  in  that  interesting  play,  "The  Dummy," 
comes  when  the  sleeping  lad,  whom  the  unsuspecting 
crooks  are  harboring  as  a  deaf-mute,  suddenly  exclaims, 
"I'm  a  detectuv!"  The  audience's  delight,  however,  is 
dependent  on  the  fact  that  already  at  other  important 
moments  in  the  play  the  boy  has  consciously  used  the 
same  amusing  phrase. 

Again,  the  preparation  may  be  made  in  advance  of  the 
introduction  of  a  character:  witness  Ragueneau's  speech 
descriptive  of  the  grotesque  and  terrible  Cyrano,  which 
smoothes  the  way  for  an  instant  recognition  of  that 
doughty  Gascon  when  he  abruptly  rises  above  the  heads 
of  the  crowd  in  the  H6tel  de  Bourgogne  and  shakes  his 
menacing  cane  at  the  actor  Montfleury.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  stage  heroes  rarely  walk  on  before  they  have  been 
talked  about. 

Preparation,  it  will  be  seen,  in  a  sense  merges  with 
exposition.  This  is  markedly  the  case  in  "On  Trial,"  for 
instance,  where  the  courtroom  prologues  are  ingeniously 
contrived  to  prepare  us  for  the  scenes  of  melodrama  to  be 
enacted  before  our  eyes  instead  of  being  merely  described 
by  the  witnesses. 

Readers  of  plays  and  theatre-goers  can  readily  identify 
innumerable  examples  of  every  sort  of  preparation.  As 


92  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

has  been  made  clear,  the  "art"  in  its  simpler  forms  at 
least,  is  one  which  the  dramatist  dare  not  neglect;  while 
in  its  subtler  phases  it  becomes  one  of  the  most  valuable 
aids  to  the  expert  craftsman.  First  of  all,  the  beginner 
must  make  sure  that  no  sudden  bewilderment  can  arise 
at  a  crucial  moment  when  distracted  attention  would  be 
fatal.  He  will  find  in  practice  that  a  frequent  procedure 
is  to  work  back  through  the  play — or,  better,  the  pre- 
liminary scenario — and  to  insert,  where  it  best  fits  in,  the 
preparation  demanded  by  later  developments.  Ordinarily 
this  should  not  prove  a  difficult  matter.  But  the  pre- 
caution is  indispensable. 

As  for  the  more  complicated  forms  of  preparation — the 
kinds  referred  to  by  Sarcey  in  the  second  quotation  at 
the  head  of  this  chapter — manifestly  no  rules  can  be  laid 
down  for  their  practice.  It  is  "the  dramatic  author's 
gift;"  and  it  probably  can  be  neither  developed  nor  cul- 
tivated by  any  means  other  than  the  study  of  great 
models  and  much  laborious  exercise  in  invention. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Cite  as  many  instances  as  you  can  of  "preparation" 
in  plays. 

2.  Cite  one  or  two  from  novels. 

3.  How  do  the  forms  differ  in  the  two  literary  types,  if 
at  all? 

4.  Invent    two    complete    "triangle    of    information" 
situations,  giving  one  in  rough  outline,  the  other  in  full 
dialogue. 


THE  MANAGEMENT  OF  PREPARATION  IN  THE  PLOT     93 

5.  Devise   the   necessary    "preparation"    for   lending 
effectiveness  to  any  tentative  play  climaxes  you  may 
have  in  mind. 

6.  In  several  noteworthy  plays  show  how  a  lack  of 
careful    "preparation"    would    have   proved    a    serious 
drawback. 


CHAPTER  IX 


SUSPENSE   AND   SURPRISE 

To  sum  up:  when  once  a  play  has  begun  to  move,  its  move- 
ment ought  to  proceed  continuously  and  with  gathering  momen- 
tum; or,  if  it  stands  still  for  a  space,  the  stoppage  ought  to  be 
deliberate  and  purposeful.  It  is  fatal  when  the  author  thinks 
it  is  moving,  while  in  fact  it  is  only  revolving  on  its  own  axis. 
— WILLIAM  ARCHER,  Play-Making. 

There  are  two  theories  in  the  theatre:  the  theory  of  expecta- 
tion and  the  theory  of  surprise;  in  other  words,  some  authors 
want  the  public  let  into  the  secret  of  the  play,  while  others  prefer 
that  the  spectators  should  not  be  initiated,  but  should  guess 
if  they  can  or  be  surprised  if  they  cannot  guess.  I  am  of  the 
latter  party. — ALEXANDRE  DUMAS  fils.  Note  to  "Le  Demi- 
Monde." 

The  interest  of  the  story  must  not  simply  be  maintained 
after  the  "exciting  moment:"  it  must  be  constantly 
ened,  rising  step  by  step,  pausing  only  at  the  minor 
climaxes  which  mark  the  breathing-spaces,  and  then  taking 
up  its  ascent  again  until  the  main  climax  is  reached. 

It  would  be  only  too  easy  to  cite  good  examples  of  this 
ever-increasing  tension  toward  climax.  To  tell  in  a 
general  way  how  to  attain  it,  on  the  other  hand,  is  no 
simple  matter.  There  is  no  power  on  the  part  of  the 
dramatist  that  depends  more  completely  upon  a  native 
endowment  than  this  ability  to  screw  up  the  emotional 
interest  in  a  play  from  point  to  point,  without  ever  allow- 
ing the  key  to  slip  in  one's  fingers  and  the  tension  to 
slacken. 


SUSPENSE  AND  SURPRISE  95 

Suspense  the  Chief  Element  of  Rising  Tension 

The  element  upon  which  interest  in  the  drama  chiefly 
depends  is  that  of  suspense.  Suspense  is  largely  an 
anxious  curiosity — emotional,  of  course — to  know  what  is 
going  to  result  from  certain  given  causes  and  what  in  turn 
will  happen  as  the  consequence  of  these  results. 

A  and  B  are  bitter  enemies  whom  circumstances  have 
for  long  kept  apart.  A  leaves  the  room  on  a  brief  errand, 
and  B,  not  knowing  where  he  is,  enters.  The  evident 
question  is :  What  will  happen  when  A  returns?  Undoubt- 
edly some  form  of  conflict,  for  this  has  been  clearly  indi- 
cated. Woe  be  to  the  playwright  who  fails  to  gratify  such 
an  expectation,  once  he  has  aroused  it!  And  when  the 
conflict  has  come  and  gone,  it  must  leave  in  its  train  other 
still  more  absorbing  possibilities  of  struggle — unless, 
indeed,  it  be  the  end  of  the  play. 

It  is  not  to  be  understood  that  the  process  of  continued 
and  rising  tension  must  be  hastened  forward  with  never  a 
moment  of  delay  from  the  first  curtain  to  the  last.  On  the 
contrary,  the  element  of  suspense  itself  may  often  be  best 
heightened  by  means  of  pause.  To  play  on  the  word 
justifiably,  expectation  is  held  up — suspended.  One  must 
simply  make  sure  that  whatever  delay  is  admitted  has 
been  carefully  calculated  with  reference  to  its  possible 
effect:  it  will  either  whet  general  curiosity  as  desired,  or 
dissipate  it. 

An  Example  of  Suspense 

Supreme  suspense  is  best  revealed  through  a  highly 
emotionalized  situation  that  is  held,  revolved,  viewed  from 


96  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

one  angle  after  another,  rather  than  hastily  terminated, 
and  that  inevitably  gathers  force  from  the  very  process  of 
delay,  always  providing  the  movement  is  constantly 
upward  from  a  lower  stage  of  tension  to  a  higher.  For  a 
striking  example  consult  the  bedroom  scene  of  "The  Gay 
Lord  Quex,"  which  has  been  practically  duplicated,  by 
the  way,  in  "Under  Cover."  In  uJL'Ange  gardien"  of 
Monsieur  Andre*  Picard  there  is  a  remarkably  similar 
instance  of  tension.  Therese  Duvigneau  has  discovered 
the  amour  of  Georges  Charmier  and  his  hostess  Suzanne 
Trelart,  whose  husband  Therese  has  threatened  to  inform 
if  Georges  does  not  instantly  leave  the  Trelarts'  chateau. 
Determined  to  silence  this  strange  guardian  angel,  Char- 
mier forces  upon  her  a  tete-a-t£te  the  outcome  of  which 
the  audience  naturally  awaits  with  keenest  interest.  Dur- 
ing this  interview,  little  by  little  the  true  character  of 
Therese,  hitherto  unguessed,  reveals  itself;  and  a  conflict 
which  started  in  mutual  hatred  terminates  in  the  most 
unexpected  manner  possible.  In  "The  Gay  Lord  Quex" 
we  assist  at  a  stubborn  battle  of  wits,  relieved  at  the  end 
by  a  touch  of  chivalry;  in  "L'Ange  gardien"  the  struggle  is 
one  of  intense  passions,  and  it  is  by  so  much  the  more 
dramatic.  At  the  end  of  Monsieur  Picard's  gripping  if 
morbid  climax,  moreover,  we  are  left  in  the  utmost  eager- 
ness to  learn  the  outcome  of  the  bizarre  situation. 

In  this  connection,  too,  the  novice,  whether  aiming  at 
the  more  artificial  or  the  serious  drama,  may  well  consider 
the  method  of  Monsieur  Henri  Bernstein,  who  always 
works  up  his  crescendo  to  an  apparent  climax  of  revelation, 
only  to  seize  it  afresh  and  carry  it  on  up  to  still  loftier  and 


SUSPENSE   AND   SURPRISE  97 

more  thrilling  heights.  Thus,  in  "UAssaut"  the  hero, 
alone  with  bis  fiancee,  forcefully  refutes  the  charges  against 
his  integrity,  only  to  break  down  at  what  seems  the  grand 
climax  and  confess  his  guilt.  Or,  in  "Israel,"  the  tortured 
mother  succeeds  in  persuading  her  son  to  call  off  the  duel 
he  is  involved  in.  The  curtain  seems  just  on  the  point  of 
falling,  when  an  idea  suddenly  strikes  him  and  he  begins 
the  gradual  extortion  of  the  confession  that  the  Jew  he 
hates  is  his  own  father.  These  last  instances  are  here  cited 
for  their  technical  skill,  without  regard  to  the  question  of 
their  artificiality — of  which  more  later. 


This  leads  us  naturally  to  a  consideration  of  the  ele- 
ment of  surprise,  which  furnishes  a  delicate  problem  for 
the  dramatist,  since  it  depends  upon  a  certain  degree  of 
mystification.  Mr.  George  M.  Cohan,  in  his  "Hello, 
Broadway!"  amusingly  satirizes  the  professorial  warnings 
against  keeping  an  important  secret  from  the  audience,  a 
procedure  said  to  account  for  the  failures  of  numerous 
plays.  Everybody  knows  that,  in  spite  of  the  objection 
raised  by  Lessing  and  other  critics,  one  of  the  chief 
pleasures  of  the  theatre  results  from  the  shock  which 
follows  an  unexpected  revelation  or  turn  of  events.  "Ar- 
sene-  Lupin,"  for  instance,  is  chiefly  concerned  with  the 
pursuit  of  a  certain  bold  and  mysterious  burglar;  and, 
though  the  audience  is  kept  in  the  dark  as  to  the  thief's 
identity  until  some  time  in  the  third  act,  the  interest  of 
the  play  does  not  suffer. 


98  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

In  the  case  of  "Under  Cover,"  as  has  been  remarked, 
it  is  not  until  the  last  few  minutes  of  the  piece  that  we 
learn  that  the  "smuggler"  hero  is  in  reality  a  secret  service 
detective  who  has  been  following  the  trail  of  a  grafting 
customs  official.  The  validity  of  Mr.  William  Archer's 
contention1  that  the  majority  of  subsequent  audiences  will 
be  apprised  of  the  startling  disclosures  and  mechanical 
trues  of  the  first  night  of  a  play  is  certainly  discredited  by 
the  success  of  this  "daring  innovation."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Mr.  Archer  greatly  overestimates  the  amount  of 
advance  information  possessed  by  the  average  playgoer. 
He  assures  us  that  "the  clock-trick  in  'Raffles'  was  none 
the  less  amusing  because  every  one  was  on  the  lookout  for 
it."  Personally,  I  must  subscribe  myself  as  a  chronic 
playgoer  who  was  entirely  unprepared  for  this  ingenious 
method  of  escape  adopted  by  the  "amateur  cracksman." 
Moreover,  it  was  apparent  that  the  great  majority  of  the 
audience  shared  in  the  complete  surprise.  One  perhaps 
reads  about  such  matters  in  the  reviewer's  column,  but 
does  one  generally  retain  them  in  memory?  As  for 
"Arsene  Lupin,"  the  masked  lift  similarly  utilized  at  the 
close  of  that  similar  play  was  also  entirely  unexpected. 
The  identity  of  the  burglar,  however,  was  vaguely  recalled 
in  advance.  And  the  chief  trouble  with  " Under  Cover"  is 
precisely  that  the  experienced  playgoer,  knowing  that  the 
hero  of  a  melodrama,  in  love  with  an  honest  girl,  cannot 
possibly  be  permitted  to  remain  a  crook  and  cannot  be 
satisfactorily  "reformed,"  and  having  heard  mention  of  a 
mysterious  "R.  J."  as  a  world-beating  sleuth,  instinctively 

1  Play-Making. 


SUSPENSE   AND   SURPRISE  99 

senses  from  an  early  moment  what  the  author  is  at  such 
pains  to  conceal — that  Stephen  Denby  and  R.  J.  are  one 
and  the  same.  In  other  words,  for  the  sophisticated  at 
least,  the  surprise  is  diminished,  if  not  defeated.  I  for  one 
would  certainly  be  far  from  grateful  to  a  neighbor  at  the 
performance  of  "Under  Cover"  who  would  take  the  trouble 
to  warn  me  in  advance  of  Denby's  real  business.  And  I 
am  no  more  grateful  to  the  critic  who  details  to  me  the 
plot  of  any  new  play  that  I  am  likely  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  see  performed.  "Within  the  Law,"  I  remember 
proved  quite  tame  to  me,  because  I  had  read  the  plot — 
the  principal  part  of  melodrama — so  often  before  I  saw 
the  production. 

In  another  recent  play  in  which  Mr.  Roi  Cooper  Megrue 
has  had  a  hand,  "It  Pays  to  Advertise,"  there  are  some 
effective  bits  of  surprise.  One  comes  when  the  apparently 
stern  father,  who  has  violently  antagonized  the  girl  of 
his  son's  choice,  suddenly  proves  to  be  merely  conspiring 
with  her  to  stimulate  the  youth  to  enterprise.  Much  more 
delightful  is  the  totally  unexpectable  moment  when  the 
Parisian  "countess,"  before  whom  everyone  has  spoken 
so  freely  on  private  and  personal  matters  in  the  belief  that 
she  cannot  understand  English,  abruptly  drops  her  voluble 
French  and  starts  talking  in  Bowery  lingo. 

Although  "crude  surprise"  is,  indeed,  to  be  avoided,  a 
story -play  that  gave  the  spectator  no  gentle  shocks  at 
unexpected  turns  would  be  unquestionably  handicapped 
in  its  bid  for  favor.  Knowing  the  story  of  a  new  play 
before  one  sees  it  does  not  prevent  one's  taking  pleasure 
in  it,  as  one  often  does  in  a  second  performance;  but  the 


IOO  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

pleasure  then  is  somewhat  different.  The  main  source  of 
interest,  of  course,  lies  in  watching  the  reaction  of  events 
upon  the  given  characters.  Still,  we  always  take  keen  de- 
light in  unguessed  means  of  escape  from  seemingly  blind- 
alley  situations,  especially  when  skill  has  entered  into 
the  preparation  for  the  surprise. 

In  "The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World,"  for  example, 
when  the  swaggering  Christy  Mahon,  just  arrayed  in  his 
new  clothes,  has — in  words — deepened  the  wound  he  gave 
his  father  to  the  point  where  the  old  man  was  "  cleft  with 
one  blow  to  the  breeches  belt,"  it  is  certainly  pleasant  to 
behold  without  warning  the  supposedly  dead  Mahon 
Senior  suddenly  appear  in  quest  of  his  son.  Fortunately } 
however,  this  shock  of  surprise  is  not  kept  for  the  climac- 
teric moment  of  Christy's  triumph  in  the  sports,  but 
occurs  some  time  before.  In  consequence,  we  have  the 
added  pleasure  of  anticipation  in  watching  to  see  what  will 
happen  when  the  conquering  hero  is  confronted  with  his 
battered  "Da,"  and  how  Pegeen  Mike  will  take  the 
unexpected  downfall  of  a  poet-lover  robed  by  her  in 
romantic  illusion.  We  have  the  double  delight  of  surprise, 
again,  when  after  being  "killed  in  Kerry  and  Mayo  too'' 
old  Mahon  comes  to  life  a  second  time.  "Expectation 
mingled  with  uncertainty  is  one  of  the  charms  of  the 
theatre." 

How  Much  to  Keep  from  the  Audience 

As  for  keeping  a  secret  from  the  audience,  this  tentative 
rule,  nowadays  often  cited,  may  possibly  be  of  service: 
If  the  information  withheld  be  essential  to  an  understand- 


SUSPENSE  AND  SURPRISE  IOI 

ing  of  what  is  happening  on  the  stage,  failure  is  probably 
inevitable;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  if  the  concealment 
takes  place  without  obscuring  the  action  or  unduly  bewil- 
dering the  spectator,  it  may  prove  a  source  of  added 
pleasure  at  the  moment  of  revelation. 

The  skill  of  exposition,  as  we  have  seen,  often  manifests 
itself  in  the  way  the  author  parcels  out  the  information  to 
his  audience  bit  by  bit.  Meanwhile,  he  is  keeping  secret 
after  secret,  for  a  longer  or  a  shorter  period;  and  his 
entire  play  will,  in  a  sense,  have  to  proceed  upon  the  same 
plan.  "On  Trial"  is  a  remarkable  example. 

In  all  drama  some  eventualities  are  predicted,  others  are 
merely  foreshadowed,  while  still  others  are  abruptly  pre- 
sented without  preparation.  In  many  cases,  nothing 
short  of  the  innate  dramatic  instinct  could  be  relied  upon 
to  determine  which  of  the  three  courses  ought  to  be  fol- 
lowed. 

One  common  failing  is  the  practice  of  telling  too  much  in 
advance,  which  generally  results  in  useless  repetitions  as 
well  as  the  blunting  of  the  dramatic  point.  For  instance, 
in  Messrs.  Paul  Armstrong  and  Wilson  Mizner's  melo- 
drama, "The  Greyhound,"  a  climacteric  scene  in  which 
the  detective  outwits  the  sharper  in  a  game  of  cards  is 
rendered  tame  because  it  has  already  been  explained  just 
how  the  scheme  will  be  worked.  The  reader  will  doubtless 
be  able  to  multiply  similar  instances  from  his  own  experi- 
ence as  a  playgoer. 

In  that  extraordinary  psychological  comedy  already 
referred  to  in  the  present  chapter,  "L'Angegardien,"  these 
matters  of  surprise  and  mystification,  in  their  relation  to 


102  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

the  element  of  suspense,  are  well  illustrated.  Frederic 
Trelart  and  his  pretty  young  wife  Suzanne  are  entertain- 
ing a  house-party  at  their  chateau,  including  the  latter's 
lover,  an  impetuous  artist,  Georges  Charmier,  and  his 
good-natured  friend,  Gounouilhac.  In  the  course  of  the 
first  act,  the  "good  Gounou,"  having  been  mercilessly 
bantered  by  Georges,  repeatedly  threatens  him  with  a 
practical  joke  by  way  of  revenge.  Presently  the  guests 
go  for  a  stroll  in  the  night  air,  after  turning  out  all  the 
lights  by  means  of  a  switch  located  just  inside  the  door. 
A  few  minutes  later  Madame  Trelart  and  the  painter  meet 
clandestinely  in  the  pitch-dark  room,  and  presently  the 
lights  are  switched  on  for  the  space  of  five  seconds,  after 
which  someone  is  heard  rapidly  retreating  along  the  path. 
The  consternation  of  Suzanne  and  Georges  is  naturally 
shared  by  the  audience.  Who  was  it  that  turned  on  the 
lights?  Not  Monsieur  Trelart,  probably;  for  he  would  not 
have  gone  away.  But,  then,  it  must  have  been  someone 
who  has  gone  to  inform  him!  Georges,  however,  recalls 
the  threat  of  Gounouilhac  and  insists  that  they  are  simply 
the  victims  of  the  latter's  promised  vengeance. 

The  unsolved  problem,  of  course,  carries  the  keenest 
interest  over  into  the  second  act;  but  the  author  is  too 
skilful  to  weary  his  audience  by  a  prolonged  mystification. 
Though  there  is  at  first  some  difficulty  in  getting  any 
reassurance  from  Gounouilhac,  he  presently  makes  it 
known  that  he  was  not  responsible  for  the  tell-tale 
illumination,  and  that  none  of  the  others  of  the  party 
followed  Suzanne  to  the  rendezvous.  So  the  thing  is 
narrowed  down  to  Therese  Duvigneau,  who  very  soon 


SUSPENSE  AND   SURPRISE  103 

acknowledges  that  it  was  she  who  manipulated  the  elec- 
tric switch. 

The  judicious  employment  of  this  frank  device — the 
careful  preparation  for  the  sudden  shock  of  the  brilliant 
illumination  after  the  total  darkness,  with  all  its  implica- 
tions and  the  consequent  alarm — may  perhaps  seem  to 
smack  of  artificiality  and  the  melodramatic.  However, 
"L'Ange  gardien,"  far  from  being  primarily  a  mere  story 
play,  is  in  reality  a  profoundly  subtle  study  in  psychology, 
comprising,  in  addition  to  a  group  of  cleverly  drawn  types, 
at  least  one  full-length  portrait,  so  remarkably  complex, 
so  nuance,  indeed,  that  Monsieur  Henri  de  Regnier,  com- 
menting on  the  piece,  was  led  to  suggest  that  such  minute 
characterization  belongs  rather  to  the  novel  than  to  the 
play.  The  point  is  that  wise  and  competent  dramatists 
do  not  scruple  to  devise  fresh  theatrical  expedients  and 
to  make  the  best  use  of  all  the  possibilities  of  plot,  even 
when  engaged  in  the  sincerest  and  most  thoroughgoing 
realism.  The  interest  in  "L'A  nge  gardien"  passes  quickly  to 
the  psychological — if,  indeed,  it  were  ever  primarily  any- 
thing else;  but  it  is  cunningly  fostered  and  heightened 
step  by  step  through  scenes  of  suspense  to  a  powerful 
climax  and  an  equally  moving  conclusion. 

Danger  of  Misleading  the  Audience 

If  it  be  dangerous  to  mystify  your  audience,  it  is  usually 
fatal  seriously  to  mislead  it.  To  set  forth  manifest  in- 
citements to  expect  certain  important  developments,  and 
then  not  to  furnish  them,  will  scarcely  be  forgiven.  What- 


104  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

ever  reasonable  anticipation  is  aroused  must  be  fulfilled. 
Among  the  things  the  audience  has  a  special  right  to 
expect  and  demand,  as  most  writers  on  the  drama  have 
pointed  out,  are  those  incidents  which  are  of  such  vital 
importance  that  they  must  not  be  allowed  to  take  place  off 
stage — what  Sarcey  called  the  scenes  d  faire.  Here  again 
the  inborn  gift  is  the  final  guide.  What  may  be  narrated? 
What  must  be  actually  shown?  I  remember  that,  when 
Mr.  Booth  Tarkington's  interesting  and  popular  story, 
"The  Gentleman  from  Indiana,"  was  presented  in  a  stage 
version  by  the  gifted  Edward  Morgan,  the  play  failed 
quite  obviously  because  the  crucial  events  were  not  ex- 
hibited in  action,  but  merely  described  in  dialogue.  It  is 
a  mistake  to  let  essentials  happen  "off  stage,"  whether 
prior  to  the  play,  or  between  acts. 

Finally,  in  this  connection,  be  it  remembered  that  the 
audience  is  entitled  not  only  to  the  scenes  it  has  been  led 
to  anticipate,  but  also  to  the  treatment  indicated  from  the 
beginning.  Many  an  author  has  really  made  a  promising 
start  and  got  no  farther,  usually  because  the  temptation 
to  let  drama  degenerate  into  melodrama,  or  comedy  into 
farce,  has  been  irresistible. 

Dramatic  interest,  then,  is  best  maintained  and  height- 
ened by  means  of  suspense,  the  very  nature  of  which  indi- 
cates delay,  but  delay  without  relaxation.  Surprise  also 
serves  the  playwright's  purpose  in  this  respect,  though 
it  is  a  means  which  must  be  handled  with  caution,  owing 
to  the  often  dangerous  element  of  mystification  it  involves. 
Coleridge  has  pointed  out  that  Shakespeare — in  contra- 
distinction, one  sees,  to  Dumas  fils — relies  rather  on 


SUSPENSE  AND  SURPRISE  IOS 

expectation  in  his  dramaturgy  than  on  surprise.  "As 
the  feeling  with  which  we  startle  at  a  shooting  star,  com- 
pared with  that  of  watching  the  sunrise  at  the  pre- 
established  moment,  such  and  so  low  is  surprise  compared 
with  expectation."1  Nevertheless,  this  lower  expedient,  so 
long  as  it  is  not  overdone,  has  its  effectiveness  and  its  legiti- 
mate place  in  the  drama.  And  more  than  one  noteworthy 
character-play  or  play  of  ideas  has  gained  excellent  advan- 
tage from  the  employment  of  this  device  as  of  all  the  others- 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Commit  to  memory  the  first  sentence  of  this  chapter. 

2.  Make  a  diagram  of  any  play  plot,  showing  the  prog- 
ress of  suspense  and  surprise. 

3.  Do  the  same  for  one  of  your  own  plots. 

4.  Point  out  the  use  of  suspense  in  any  modern  play. 

5.  Show  how  augmented  suspense  is  used  to  work  up 
to  a  climax. 

6.  What  do  you  understand  by  a  minor  climax,  and  the 
resolution  of  suspense,  as  a  part  of  the  main  action? 

7.  Cite  an  instance  in  which  the  expectation  of  the 
audience   is   favorably   disappointed   by   introducing   a 
surprise. 

8.  What  do  you  understand  by  crescendo  in  a  plot? 

9.  Is  it  permissible  to  mislead  an  audience  for  a  short 
time  in  order  to  effect  a  surprise?    Support  your  answer 
by  giving  examples. 

10.  Is  there  any  safe  middle  ground  between  misleading 
an  audience  and  mystifying  them  for  the  sake  of  a  surprise? 

1  Literary  Remains. 


CHAPTER  X 


CLIMAX   AND    THE    ENDING 

The  climax  must  seem  inevitable,  though  perhaps  unexpected. 
The  reader  [the  spectator,  in  the  theatre]  will  almost  surely  look 
back  and  trace  the  movement  of  forces  in  the  story  which  lead 
from  the  first  causes  up  to  the  climax,  and  he  demands  that  the 
climax  be  what  its  name  implies — a  ladder;  and  he  is  keen  to  note 
missing  and  unsafe  rungs.  It  is  important  to  remember  that 
while  one  may  slide  down  a  ladder,  he  must  ascend  it  step  by  step. 
The  gradation  toward  the  climax  is  no  small  matter. — J.  BERG 
ESENWEIN,  Writing  the  Short-Story. 

The  "highest  point"  or  "climax"  of  a  typical  drama  marks  the 
division  of  the  two  processes  out  of  which  the  plot  of  a  play  is 
made.  These  processes  are  frequently  described  as  the  "com- 
plication"— the  weaving  together  of  the  various  threads  of 
interest — and  the  "resolution" — the  untangling  of  the  threads 
again.  "Tying"  and  "untying"  are  still  simpler  terms;  and  the 
French  word  for  untying,  the  denouement,  has  grown  familiar  to 
us,  though  it  is  often  used  for  what  is  technically  known  as  the 
"catastrophe,"  rather  than  as  descriptive  of  the  entire  "falling 
action,"  of  which  the  catastrophe  is  only  the  final  stage. — BLISS 
PERRY,  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction. 

The  tension  of  emotional  interest  in  drama  should  be 
gradually  increased  from  the  beginning  up  to  the  highest 
point,  known  as  the  climax.  To  be  sure,  the  rate  of  speed 
is  not  always  the  same.  At  first,  the  movement  will  neces- 
sarily be  more  leisurely;  but  as  the  summit  is  approached 
the  pace  should  be  quickened. 

Nevertheless,  as  has  been  indicated,  there  are  resting- 
points  on  the  way — particularly  at  the  end  of  the  first  act, 


CLIMAX  AND   THE   ENDING  107 

in  a  three-act  play,  and  also  at  the  close  of  the  second  in  a 
four-act  play.  As  a  rule,  however,  a  sort  of  temporary 
spurt — a  minor  climax — just  before  each  of  these  minor 
rests  is  attained,  serves  to  compensate,  as  it  were,  for  the 
short  delay  to  come. 

Naturally,  such  other  minor  pauses  as  occur  during  the 
acts  must  be  skilfully  handled  lest  they  result  in  actual 
lapses  of  interest  and  that  broken-backed  effect  produced 
where  the  attention  is  alternately  gripped  and  relaxed. 
In  proportion  as  the  earlier,  and  therefore  minor,  cli- 
maxes are  high,  the  danger  of  flat  reactions  becomes 
greater. 

The  climax  is  "the  scene  where  the  dramatic  forces 
which  are  contending  for  the  mastery  are  most  evenly 
balanced.  One  cannot  say  whether  the  hero  or  the 
intriguer,  the  protagonist  or  the  antagonist,  will  conquer. 
It  is  the  point  of  greatest  tension  between  the  opposing 
powers."1  Generally  speaking,  it  is  the  function  of  climax 
in  a  play  to  illustrate  with  accumulated  and  electrifying 
brilliancy  the  theme,  or  at  least  the  central  incident  or 
character,  by  exhibiting  it  in  the  moments  when  the 
struggle  can  grow  no  more  tense,  but  must  be  decided. 

Climax  and  the  Falling  Movement 

The  climacteric  moments  at  the  ends  of  acts  are  often 
referred  to  as  "  curtains. "  Modern  dramaturgy  has  shown 
a  distinct  dislike  to  "curtains"  whose  artificiality  is  glar- 
ingly apparent.  "Formerly,"  Sarcey  observes,  in  dis- 

1  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,  Bliss  Perry. 


IO8  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

cussing  the  "Francillon"  of  Dumas  the  younger,  "the 
author  tried  to  end  an  act  on  some  effective  speech  which 
gave  impetus  to  the  piece  and  aroused  curiosity  as  to  the 
next  act.  In  this  business  Dumas  pere  was  inimitable.  At 
present  we  like  to  end  with  some  trifle  which,  insignificant 
in  itself,  suggests  the  image  of  real  life." 

Radicals  like  Mr.  Galsworthy  and  Mr.  Barker  take 
special  delight  in  closing  their  acts  upon  comparatively 
commonplace  speeches  or  pantomime.  Analysis  in  such 
cases,  however,  will  generally  show  that  there  has  merely 
been  appended  to  the  climax  a  little  added  dialogue, 
the  effect  of  which,  like  the  delayed  final  curtain  of  "The 
Thunderbolt,"  is  intended  to  suggest  this  indefinite- 
ness  of  reality.  Of  course,  this  is  not  an  actual  gain  in 
truth,  but  simply  the  substitution  of  one  artificial  device 
for  another.  Dramatic  structure,  when  it  exhibits  itself 
over-boldly,  is  doubtless  reprehensible;  its  labored  con- 
cealment, on  the  other  hand,  may  prove  equally  repellent. 
Clyde  Fitch,  always  on  the  lookout  for  the  startling,  was 
among  the  first  to  drop  his  curtains  at  unexpected  mo- 
ments. The  greater  the  surprise,  of  course,  the  more 
effective  the  expedient.  But,  naturally,  this  device  is  not 
adapted  to  much  repetition. 

"In  a  tragedy  the  grand  climax  is  usually  preceded  or 
followed  by  what  is  called  the  'tragic  moment,'  the  event 
which  makes  a  tragic  outcome  unavoidable  and  foredooms 
to  failure  every  subsequent  struggle  of  the  hero  against 
his  fate.  The  speech  of  Mark  Antony,  the  killing  of  Polo- 
nius,  the  escape  of  Fleance,  are  examples  of  the  '  tragic 
moment,'  and  it  will  be  seen  how  closely  this  is  associated 


CLIMAX  AND  THE   ENDING  IOQ 

with  what  the  Greeks  named  the  'turn,' — the  beginning 
of  the  'falling  action.'  "*  Usually  it  is  after  the  climax 
that  we  find  the  falling  movement,  the  catastrophe,  the 
solution,  the  denouement,  the  untying  of  the  knot. 

Modern  plays  in  four  acts,  with  the  climax  at  the  end 
of  the  third,  devote  Act  IV,  or  at  least  the  latter  portion 
of  it,  to  bringing  matters  to  a  conclusion.  A  moment's 
thought  will  show  that  this  decline  after  the  high  point  is 
a  necessary  part  of  most  dramatic  actions  and  is  therefore 
not  to  be  confused  with  the  bungb'ng  anti-climax,  or  flat- 
tening of  interest,  against  which  a  warning  has  just  been 
uttered. 

The  Ending 

Doubtless  the  simplest  way  to  put  an  end  to  a  fight  is 
for  one  of  the  antagonists,  human  or  otherwise,  to  with- 
draw— as  it  were,  to  "holler  'miff."  But  it  frequently 
happens  that  neither  of  the  contestants  is  of  the  quitting 
kind,  in  which  case  one  or  the  other  must  be  definitely 
"knocked  out,"  if  there  is  to  be  any  satisfactory  termina- 
tion of  hostilities.  In  the  old  Greek  drama  the  deus  ex 
machina  would  sometimes  descend  from  Olympus  at  the 
last  moment  and  straighten  out  an  apparently  hopeless 
situation  by  superhuman  means.  Later  on,  the  play- 
wright himself  all  too  frequently  employed  a  supernatural 
power  in  making  his  characters  belie  their  innate  selves 
that  the  story  might  terminate,  "happily"  or  otherwise. 
But  eleventh-hour  changes  of  heart  on  the  part  of  hero, 
heroine,  or  antagonist  are  distinctly  out  of  fashion  on  the 

1  A  study  of  Prose  Fiction,  Bliss  Perry. 


IIO  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

stage  to-day.  Just  as  there  is  an  effort  to  avoid  even  the 
semblance  of  artificiality  in  the  matter  of  climaxes,  so 
there  is  an  even  stronger — and  far  more  praiseworthy — 
determination  to  abolish  the  unmotived  and  illogical 
about-facing  that  has  made  possible  so  many  last-act 
reconciliations,  marriages,  and  general  rightings  of  wrongs. 

The  last  act,  though  it  follow  the  climax,  should  sustain 
the  interest  to  the  end.  Generally  speaking,  it  should  be 
brief  and  compact.  In  tragedy  there  will,  of  course,  be 
the  death-scene,  or  at  least  its  modern  equivalent — 
separation,  or  other  recognition  of  the  futility  of  the 
struggle.  In  comedy  there  will  be  the  reconciliation,  the 
rehabilitation,  the  betrothal,  or  perhaps  simply  the  quiet 
termination  of  a  contest  or  an  intrigue  now  definitely 
ended.  In  any  event,  there  should  be  a  disentangling  of 
the  complication,  but  the  untying  of  the  knot  should  be  so 
managed  that  suspense  is  continued,  based  on  doubt  as  to 
the  outcome,  or  the  manner  of  its  accomplishment,  and,  if 
possible,  re-enforced  by  skilfully  manipulated  surprise. 

As  has  lately  been  demonstrated  in  "Under  Cover"  and 
"On  Trial,"  for  instance,  nothing  gives  a  drama  a  more 
effective  ending  than  an  abrupt  and  resourceful,  yet  wholly 
probable,  denouement  held  practically  till  the  last  cur- 
tain. 

In  one  farce  that  comes  to  mind,  wherein  two  different 
persons  have  in  turn  pretended  to  be  a  certain  noted 
foreigner,  with  seemingly  insoluble  resultant  complica- 
tions, the  unexpected  arrival  upon  the  scene  at  the  last 
moment  of  the  foreigner  in  person  straightens  matters  out 
in  a  jiffy.  The  two  impersonators  are  simultaneously 


CLIMAX  AND  THE   ENDING  III 

unmasked  and  rendered  agreeable  to  compromise.  This 
is,  of  course,  a  trite  form  of  the  expedient. 

Playwrights  of  to-day  avoid  antiquated  solutions  like 
the  unexpected  will  that  turns  up  at  the  last  moment  and 
leaves  the  estate  to  the  hero,  as  in  "The  Lights  o'  London" 
and  others  of  its  ilk.  Arbitrary  conclusions  are  more 
tolerable  in  farce  than  elsewhere.  We  feel  no  resentment, 
for  instance,  when,  in  Mr.  James  Montgomery's  "Ready 
Money,"  Stephen  Baird's  dubiously  exploited  mine 
ultimately  turns  out  really  rich  in  gold;  but  when  in  a 
play  of  serious  comedy  intent  like  Mr.  Thompson  Buchan- 
an's "The  Bridal  Path"  the  heroine,  having  unmercifully 
flouted  and  ignored  her  newly  acquired  husband,  about- 
faces  at  the  very  first  intimation  that  even  this  worm 
might  turn,  we  sense  the  puppet-master  pulHng  his 
strings. 

Sarcey1  wrote  in  1867:  "Real  life  has  no  denouements. 
Nothing  in  it  ends,  because  nothing  in  it  begins.  Every- 
thing continues.  Every  happening  reaches  back  at  one 
end  into  the  series  of  facts  which  preceded  it,  and  passes 
on  at  the  other  end  to  lose  itself  in  the  series  of  facts  which 
follow.  The  two  extremities  fade  into  the  shadows  and 
escape  us.  In  the  theatre  one  must  cut  at  some  definite 
point  this  interrupted  stream  of  life,  stop  it  at  some 
accident  du  rivage." 

Brunetiere,  on  the  other  hand,  regarded  such  a  theory  as 
a  jest  and  not  a  very  pleasing  one.  As  an  excuse  for 

1  Compare  Studies  in  Stagecraft,  Clayton  Hamilton,  pages 
164-165.  And  again,  The  Theory  of  the  Theatre,  Clayton  Hamil- 
ton, page  169. 


112  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

Moliere's  illogical  "happy  endings,"  it  did  not  satisfy  the 
author  of  Les  Epoqites  du  Thedtre.  Mere  concessions  to 
popular  demand,1  which  insists  that  comedies  should  end 
with  marriages,  were  these  terminations,  asserts  the  second 
critic,  adding,  "If  we  are  not  incapable  of  comprehension, 
we  shall  have  to  postulate  the  contrary  in  order  to  have 
the  true  thought  of  the  poet." 

As  for  the  termination  that  is  neither  of  comedy  nor  of 
tragedy,  but  the  "deliberate  blank,"  according  to  Pro- 
fessor A.  W.  Ward  it  is  a  "confession  of  incompetence." 
The  exponents  of  naturalism  will,  of  course,  quarrel  with 
this  dictum.  They  will  insist  that  as  life  has  no  "  endings  " 
— other  than  death,  and  not  even  that — there  may  be 
none  in  a  drama  which  aims  at  the  closest  possible  approxi- 
mation of  life.  They  will  continue  the  play  for  two  hours 
and  then  chop  it  off  in  the  midst  of  a  speech,  as  Mr. 
Barker  does  with  "The  Madras  House."  Presumably  a 
plotless  play  will  no  more  require  a  conclusion  than  it  will 
need  a  beginning.  But  it  has  not  yet  been  generally  agreed 
that  an  absolutely  plotless  play  is  a  play  at  all,  by  the 
commonly  accepted  definitions  of  the  term. 

At  all  events,  the  rule  in  our  day  is  that  the  playwright 
should  by  all  means  seek  an  ending  that  is  an  ending  and  at 
the  same  time  the  logical  and  convincing  outcome  of  the 
facts  of  character  and  action  that  have  preceded  it. 

Illustrating  Climax  and  Ending 

Purists  are  fond  of  reiterating  that  the  word  "climax" 

1  Compare  A  Study  of  the  Drama,  Brander  Matthews,  pages 
195,  196,  197. 


CLIMAX  AND  THE  ENDING  113 

means  only  the  series  of  gradations  by  which  a  culmina- 
tion is  reached,  and  not  the  culmination,  or  acme,  or 
apex  itself.  Authoritative  use  and  dictionary  makers, 
however,  fail  to  bear  out  the  purists  on  this  point.  But 
since  the  top  of  a  ladder  is  reached — as  Dr.  Esenwein 
suggests — only  by  means  of  the  series  of  rungs  leading  up 
to  it,  these  steps  themselves  are  necessarily  presupposed 
even  when  our  reference  is  to  the  apex  alone.  A  climax 
in  drama  is  a  high  point  of  emotional  interest  that  has 
been  attained  by  climbing  upward  by  degrees. 

For  the  sake  of  illustration  let  us  refer  to  "The  Witching 
Hour,"  which  we  have  already  discussed  with  regard  to 
its  plot  complication.  To  begin  with,  the  student  will  note 
how  in  Act  I  the  atmosphere  is  established,  and  the 
characters  are  introduced.  Properly  enough,  both  ele- 
ments are  inherently  interesting.  The  gradual  exposition 
is  disguised,  for  the  most  part,  in  characterizing  dialogue. 
The  theme  is  first  casually  referred  to  and  presently 
defined  by  Justice  Prentice,  whose  visit  also  prepares  us 
for  the  developments  of  Act  II. 

When  Clay  questions  Viola  as  to  Hardmuth's  pro- 
posal, we  scent  the  battle.  Soon  thereafter  the  antagonists 
themselves  clash  before  our  eyes,  and  our  emotional 
interest  is  fully  aroused:  we  are  taking  sides,  hoping  and 
waiting.  Then  comes  the  abrupt,  swift,  upward  step  to 
the  primary  climax:  Clay,  taunted  to  the  verge  of  madness, 
kills  Denning — and  we  are  left  in  suspense  as  to  the  con- 
sequences of  his  deed. 

After  the  curtain  has  risen  for  the  second  time,  there  is 
some  necessary  explanation  of  inter-act  developments  by 


114  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

means  of  the  conversation  of  the  two  Supreme  Court 
justices.  Pleasing  surprise,  with  increased  interest, 
results  from  the  coincidence  that  Clay's  fate  now  rests 
largely  in  Prentice's  hands.  The  student  will  note  the 
deft  "atmosphere"  and  theme-emphasis  introduced  by 
the  Bret  Harte  reference,  which  is  at  the  same  time  by 
way  of  preparation  for  what  is  to  follow.  A  much  greater 
surprise,  connected  with  the  more  significant  coincidence, 
further  absorbs  us  when  Helen  produces  Prentice's  old 
letter  to  her  mother,  telling  of  his  cat's-eye  duel.  We  are 
held  in  suspense  for  a  time  until  the  resentment  of  the 
Justice  'at  this  attempt  to  influence  him  is  overcome. 
Then  expectation  leaps  forward,  when  he  promises  a  new 
trial  and  his  own  testimony  in  Clay's  behalf.  The  act 
ending  is  extremely  effective,  with  its  moving  and  pic- 
turesque resume  of  the  theme. 

In  the  beginning  of  Act  III  the  suspense  felt  by  the 
characters  is  passed  over  the  footlights  to  add  to  that  of 
the  audience.  Immediately  the  hand-to-hand  fighting  is 
resumed  before  our  eyes,  the  combatants  now  in  a  death 
grapple.  The  hero  who  has  so  completely  won  our  sym- 
pathies we  now  see  in  imminent  danger  of  his  life.  We 
watch  him  fight  on  unflinchingly,  battering  down  his 
opponent.  Moment  by  moment  more  and  more  swiftly 
and  certainly  the  good  thought  is  driving  out  the  bad. 
Suddenly,  in  a  shock  of  welcome  surprise,  Clay  bursts 
upon  our  sight,  a  free  man.  Then  the  main  antagonism 
is  bodied  forth  in  a  tense  moment  of  climacteric  con- 
flict— and  brute  force  is  finally  cowed  by  the  power  of 
mind. 


CLIMAX  AND  THE   ENDING  11$ 

With  the  climax  of  the  play  at  the  end  of  the  third  act, 
the  author  must  exert  his  skill  to  hold  complete  interest 
throughout  the  "falling  movement,"  the  dZnomment,  the 
"untying,"  of  Act  IV.  Even  here  some  further  inter-act 
exposition  is  necessary,  but  it  is  swiftly  conveyed  and  is 
made  to  serve  the  play's  thesis  now  so  freely  and  fre- 
quently in  evidence.  Act  III  has  left  at  least  Hardmuth's 
fate  in  some  doubt,  as  it  has  left  Clay  still  the  victim  of 
his  own  weakness  and  of  a  bitter  hatred.  Let  the  student 
observe  how  the  playwright  utilizes  these  few  loose  ends 
to  create  fresh  suspense,  first,  when  Brookfield  forces 
Clay  to  look  unflinchingly  at  the  cat's-eye  the  influence  of 
which  had  wrought  so  much  evil;  and  especially — second 
— when  Jack  sends  the  boy  to  fetch  his  persecutor.  What 
will  Brookfield  do  with  his  conquered  enemy?  No  danger 
of  our  not  waiting  to  see!  Meanwhile,  by  means  of 
Ellinger,  the  author  entertains  us  with  some  skilful  char- 
acter humor  which  is  not  only  amusing  but  also  intensely 
illuminating.  As  Prentice  has  summed  up  the  play's 
thesis  in  serious  terms,  so  Lew  Ellinger  presents  it  from 
the  angle  of  epigrammatic  whimsy:  "God  A'mighty  gives 
you  a  mind  like  that,  and  you  won't  go  with  me  to  Cin- 
cinnati!" 

Then  Clay  returns  with  the  fugitive  Hardmuth;  and 
we  have  the  swift,  telling,  theses-clinching  termination, 
definite,  logical,  and  satisfying.  Brookfield  has  shared  in 
the  evil  thought,  if  not  in  the  actual  deed,  that  has  put 
Scovil  out  of  the  world.  Relentlessly  abiding  by  bis  con- 
viction as  to  telepathic  responsibility,  the  ex-gambler 
determines  to  help  Hardmuth  flee  the  state — and  the 


Il6  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

woman  Jack  loves,  now  also  convinced,  declares  she  will 
aid  him  in  this  act  of  generosity  to  the  relentless  prose- 
cutor of  her  son. 

The  beginner  will  find  it  decidedly  worth  while  to  dissect 
out  and  study  minutely  the  framework  of  many  notable 
plays.  He  will  readily  see  that  methods  of  construction 
vary  widely;  that  there  is  no  rigid  form  of  climax-building 
to  be  exactly  followed  in  every  instance;  that  plans  differ 
according  to  the  purpose  involved,  the  period  of  the 
writing,  the  playwright's  degree  of  orthodoxy,  and  many 
other  considerations.  Nevertheless,  the  student  will 
observe,  the  trajectory  or  sky-rocket  path  is  rarely 
neglected  by  any  play  that  wins  for  itself  a  large  measure 
of  popular  approval.  And  such  a  scheme  of  movement 
necessarily  involves  the  onward,  upward,  culminating 
course  of  climax. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Formulate  a  definition  for  Climax. 

2.  Define  Motivation. 

3.  Pick  out  the  grand  climax  (a)  in  any  play  of  the 
Elizabethan  period;  (6)  in  any  modern  play. 

4.  In  a  short  sentence  for  each,  trace  the  various  minor 
climaxes,  in   any   modern  plays,  by  which  the  author 
step  by  step  increases  the  tension  of  interest  and  expecta- 
tion.   This  is  an  important  question  because  it  discloses  one 
of  the  dramatist's  most  useful  devices  in  bringing  a  story 
gradually  to  its  high  point. 

5.  Show,  in  any  play,  how  a  minor  (lesser  because  only 


CLIMAX  AND  THE  ENDING  117 

a  contributory)  climax  is  followed  by  a  short  period  of 
easement. 

6.  Can  you  point  out  in  any  play  a  place  where  the 
dramatist  lost  his  grip  on  his  audience  by  too  great  a 
reversal  of  interest  after  such  a  minor  climax? 

7.  Though  climax  and  denouement  are  never  identical, 
point  to  a  story  or  a  play  in  which  the  resolution  follows 
the  climax  so  quickly  that  they  are  almost  simultaneous  in 
time? 

8.  What  is  the  difference  between  a  crisis  and  a  climax? 

9.  Cite  a  play  in  which  the  ending  is  artificial  because 
the  denouement  has  been  forced — badly  motivated. 

10.  What  is  your  opinion  of  "  the  happy  ending?  " 

11.  In  what  sort  of  plays  are  we  less  insistent  on  a  well 
motivated  denouement?    Give  examples,  if  you  can. 

12.  Revise  one  of  your  old  plots,  in  view  of  the  principles 
of  this  chapter.    In  presenting  it,  show  what  changes  you 
have  made. 

13.  Briefly  summarize  the  first  two  acts  of  an  original 
comedy,  farce-comedy,  or  farce,  and  then  describe  fully 
the  grand  climax  and  denouement,  without  giving  the  dia- 
logue in  full  form. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DEVICES  AND   CONVENTIONS 

The  drama  ought  not  to  correspond  in  every  respect  with  the 
scenes  which  we  daily  witness  in  real  life.  The  mimic  powers  of 
the  art  are  not  without  their  bounds;  and  it  is  ever  necessary 
that  its  deceptions  should  not  be  altogether  concealed  from  our 
view. — SISMONDI,  The  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe. 

The  dramatic  art  is  the  ensemble  of  the  conventions  universal 
or  local,  eternal  or  temporary,  by  the  aid  of  which,  in  representing 
human  life  on  the  stage,  one  gives  to  the  public  the  illusion  of 
truth.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  cease  to  repeat  it:  the  theatre — like  the  other  arts, 
after  all — is  only  a  great  and  magnificent  deception.  It  has  not 
at  all  for  its  object  actual  truth,  but  verisimilitude.  Now,  veri- 
similitude exists  much  less  in  the  reality  of  facts  than  in  the 
impassioned  imagination  of  the  spectators  before,  whose  eyes  the 
dramatic  author  exhibits  these  facts. — FRANCISQUE  SARCEY, 
Quarante  Ans  de  The&tre. 

Before  proceeding  to  a  discussion  of  the  characterization, 
it  would  seem  advisable  to  consider  certain  devices  and 
conventions  by  means  of  which  plots  are  erected,  sus- 
tained, or  relieved. 

Time  was  when  a  sub-plot  or  secondary  fable  was  a 
familiar  element  in  play  structure,  a  story  within  the  main 
story,  emphasizing  the  latter  by  similarity  or  by  contrast, 
but  not  directly  building  it  up  in  a  vital  way,  and  therefore 
not  strictly  part  and  parcel  of  the  main  action  of  the  play. 
Thus  the  love  affair  of  Lorenzo  and  Jessica  mirrors  that  of 
Bassanip  and  Portia,  and  the  tragic  experiences  of  Laertes 


DEVICES   AND  CONVENTIONS  IIQ 

parallel  those  of  Hamlet,  but  are  not  really  essential  to 
either  story.  Nowadays,  however,  it  is  generally  assumed 
that  neither  playing  time  on  the  stage  nor  unity  of  impres- 
sion allows  for  secondary  development.  Exceptions  to 
this  almost  axiomatic  principle  are  rare. 

The  Element  of  Relief 

Perhaps  the  chief  relic  of  the  sub-plot  may  be  found  in 
the  element  of  relief.  As  everybody  knows,  characters 
such  as  comic  servants,  quaint  old  people,  and  juvenile 
lovers,  have  long  been  employed  to  furnish  a  humorous  or 
a  sentimental  contrast  to  the  main  action,  particularly 
when  it  has  been  deeply  serious.  Neither  hero  nor  villain, 
however,  is  at  present  considered  above  contributing  to 
mirth,  and  the  youthful  amorists  are  now  given  some- 
thing more  to  do  in  the  story  than  mere  billing  and 
cooing. 

After  all,  the  best  relief  possible  is  that  of  contrast.  The 
scenes  of  a  drama  ought  to  be  as  carefully  varied  as  are  the 
constituents  of  a  concert  programme,  and  such  variety  is 
to  be  obtained  by  changing  the  number  of  characters 
participating  in  the  scenes,  as  well  as  by  alternating  the 
graver  incidents  with  the  gay. 

Humor 


Humor  is  displayed  in  drama  by  means  of  verbal 
witticisms,  which  retain  their  flavor  even  when  detached 
from  the  text;  of  lines  that  are  amusing  because  they 
illuminate  amusing  traits  of  the  speaker's  character;  and 


120  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

of  situations  or  contretemps  depending  on  the  development 
of  the  story.  In  other  words,  there  is  a  type  of  humorous 
effect  peculiar  to  each  of  the  three  elements — dialogue, 
character,  and  plot. 

Humor  of  dialogue  is  merely  a  facile  means  of  provoking 
laughter,  and  is  dependent  solely  on  the  author's  ability 
to  devise  and  to  insert  his  jests  or  epigrams  in  such  a 
manner  as  neither  unduly  to  delay  the  action  nor  seriously 
to  belie  the  characters  that  utter  them.  The  plays  of 
Oscar  Wilde  are  even  overloaded  with  dazzling  collections 
of  this  superimposed  ornamentation.  We  know,  when  we 
hear  them  uttered,  that  they  are  the  achievements,  not  of 
the  personages  giving  voice  to  them,  but  of  the  brilliant 
author  only.  Less  clever  writers  run  great  risks  in  imi- 
tating the  manner  of  "Lady  Windermere's  Fan"  or  of 
"Fanny's  First  Play." 

Above  all  things,  certainly,  the  dialogue  humor  of  a 
drama  should  be  original.  A  few  years  ago  a  play  was  pro- 
duced in  New  York  which  boldly  repeated  many  of  the 
best  epigrams  of  Wilde.  Every  really  experienced  thea- 
tre-goer promptly  recognized  them.  And  it  is  so  with 
most  of  the  "pickings  from  'Puck'  "  with  which  some 
authors  are  prone  to  lard  their  stage  works.  In  "Under 
Cover,"  for  example,  to  quote  a  single  instance,  one  notes 
the  interpolation  of  that  antique  bit  of  dialogue  wherein 
the  "juvenile"  with  the  "tango  mustache"  says,  "Some- 
thing's been  trembling  on  my  lip  for  weeks;"  and  the 
ingenue  protests,  "Oh,  please  don't  shave  it  off,  Monty!" 
It  must  be  confessed  that  though  this  good  old  jest  has 
been  circulating  in  the  public  prints  since  before  the  days 


DEVICES  AND  CONVENTIONS  121 

of  Joe  Miller,  everybody  seems  willing  to  laugh  at  it  just 
once  more. 

Plot  humor,  and  especially  character  humor,  are  much 
more  valuable  in  the  drama  than  is  mere  detached  verbal 
cleverness.  It  would  be  easy  to  cite  no  end  of  examples  of 
both,  alone  and  in  combination.  Plot  humor  is,  naturally, 
the  principal  ingredient  of  farce;  character  humor  of 
comedy;  though  each  is  often  found  in  melodrama,  and 
even  in  tragedy.  The  absurdly  simple-minded  Sam  Thorn- 
hiU's  remark  in  the  last  act  of  "A  Pair  of  Silk  Stockings," 
that  he  thought  his  wife  knew  he  was  "a  subtle  sort  of 
chap,"  is  a  rich  instance  of  character  humor.  And  when 
the  young  Assyriologist  in  "The  High  Cost  of  Loving" 
greets  a  conscience-stricken  pillar  of  society  as  "Father," 
we  have  an  obvious  illustration  of  humor  of  plot. 

Coincidence  and  Probability 

As  has  been  seen,  events  may  occur,  on  the  stage  as  in 
life,  either  inevitably,  as  in  the  case  of  pure  comedy  and 
tragedy,  or  arbitrarily,  as  in  the  case  of  melodrama  or 
farce.  It  is  the  mingling  of  these  two  kinds  that  makes  for 
much  of  that  confusion  of  the  genres  elsewhere  considered. 
The  arbitrary  determination  of  plot,  moreover,  is  illus- 
trated in  the  matter  of  the  forced  "happy  ending,"  the 
sudden  and  incredible  conversion  of  a  character,  the  over- 
night reform  or  reconciliation.  Of  course,  at  any  point  in 
a  drama  the  arbitrary  may  intervene  at  the  sacrifice  of 
inevitability. 

One  prominent  example  of  this  intervention  takes  the 


122  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

form  of  the  greatly  over-worked  coincidence.  There  are, 
doubtless,  frequent  strange  accidents  in  real  life  which 
wholly  upset  all  rational  courses  of  events.  On  the  stage, 
however,  the  workings  of  chance — at  least  in  serious 
drama — are  regarded  with  suspicion.  Time,  that  arch 
satirist,  as  Mr.  William  Archer  and  others  have  reminded 
us,  has  his  joke  out  with  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  because  a 
letter  slipped  under  a  door  happens  to  slip  also  under  a  car- 
pet. In  the  employment  of  this  expedient  in  his  novel 
Mr.  Hardy  is  as  usual  doing  the  thing  best  fitted  to  his  pur- 
pose. On  the  other  hand,  critics  have  often  pointed  out 
that  arbitrarily  controlled  action  on  the  part  of  a  main 
character  in  a  comedy  or  a  tragedy,  to  bring  about  a 
desired  plot  development,  necessarily  renders  the  person- 
age unconvincing.  And  likewise,  if  the  intervention  of 
chance  be  utilized  to  produce  a  major  movement  in  the 
plot,  the  audience  will  be  apt  to  lose  faith  and  interest  in 
all  that  follows. 

This  is,  of  course,  merely  going  back  to  our  fundamental 
principle  of  logic,  here  traveling  under  the  name  of  proba- 
bility. In  real  life  a  long-lost  daughter,  reared  among 
gypsies  and  ignorant  of  her  parentage,  might,  indeed,  by 
pure  chance  stroll  one  evening  unawares  into  the  home  of 
her  unsuspecting  father;  but  nowadays,  when  such  an 
event  occurs  upon  the  stage,  we  grow  restive  and  sus- 
picious of  the  author's  inventiveness  or  his  good  faith. 
Time  was  when  important  coincidence  was  accepted  in  the 
theatre  as  a  matter  of  course,  or  even  of  preference. 
To-day,  however,  it  has  been  for  the  most  part  consigned 
to  that  limbo  of  antiquated  devices  and  conventions  which, 


DEVICES   AND  CONVENTIONS  123 

for  the  present  at  least,  has  swallowed  up  the  soliloquy, 
the  "apart,"  and  the  "aside,"  along  with  eavesdropping 
behind  portieres  and  letters  fortuitously  left  lying  about. 

One  recalls  how  purely  coincidental  it  is  that  Paula 
Tanqueray's  former  lover  should  become  engaged  to 
her  step-daughter.  In  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas's  play, 
"As  a  Man  Thinks,"  it  is  pure  coincidence  that  discovers 
to  Vedah  Seelig,  in  Act  I,  that  her  fiance  De  Lota  has 
been  in  serious  trouble:  De  Lota  happens  to  have  been 
involved  with  the  very  model  Burrill  employed  and  whose 
photograph  the  latter  is  exhibiting  because  he  happened 
to  have  sold  to  the  father  of  Vedah  the  figurine  of 
which  Mimi  was  the  original.  Moreover,  this  coinci- 
dence is  doubled — in  strangeness  as  well  as  in  usefulness 
— when  it  is  also  made  to  serve  as  the  means  of  apprising 
Elinor  Clayton  that  her  husband,  who  happens  to  have 
become  involved  with  this  self-same  model,  is  justifying 
her  fears  as  to  his  infidelity.  Again,  in  Act  II  of  this  play, 
Clayton  learns  of  the  apparent  infamy  of  his  wife  through 
the  highly  improbable  coincidence  which  leads  her  father  j 
on  his  way  to  Clayton's  home,  actually  to  see  her  entering 
with  De  Lota  the  apartment  building  in  which  he  lodges. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  effectiveness  of  Scribe's  "triangle  of 
information,"  which  the  author  employs  in  each  instance, 
that  reconciles  us — if  we  are  reconciled — to  this  bold  use 
of  the  arbitrary. 

This  explanation,  however,  certainly  does  not  apply  in 
the  case  of  the  telephone  incident  in  Act  III.  For  the 
purposes  of  the  plot  it  has  become  necessary  for  the 
Seeligs  to  learn  of  De  Lota's  evil  record.  The  only  person 


124  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

who  could  inform  them,  however,  is  Julian  Burrill;  but,  as 
an  honorable  rival  of  De  Lota  for  Vedah  Seelig's  hand, 
Burrill  would  be  going  contrary  to  his  character  if  he  were 
to  turn  informer.  So  the  author  has  De  Lota,  who  is  alone 
with  Burrill,  start  to  answer  a  telephone  call  and  then, 
when  the  receiver  is  off  the  hook,  admit  his  guilt  in  full. 
It  happens  that  the  confession  is  heard  not  only  by  Dr. 
Seelig,  answering  the  call  on  a  branch  instrument,  but  also 
by  Frank  Clayton,  who  is  the  husband  of  the  woman  with 
whom  De  Lota  is  involved,  and  who  happens  to  be  at  the 
other  end  of  the  line.  Thus  a  third  astonishing  coincidence 
is  utilized,  and  the  common  sense  of  De  Lota  is  belied  by 
his  stupidity  in  making  damaging  admissions  into  the  con- 
nected transmitter  of  a  telephone. 

In  Mr.  Haddon  Chambers's  "Passers-by,"  the  female 
waif  who  is  called  in  from  the  London  night  turns  out  to 
be  the  mother  of  the  hero's  child.  In  Mr.  Augustus 
Thomas's  play,  "The  Model,"  the  girl  the  Frenchman 
urges  the  painter  to  make  his  mistress,  it  develops,  is  the 
Frenchman's  own  daughter.  In  Messrs.  John  Stapleton 
and  P.  G.  Wodehouse's  farce,  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure," 
the  hero  on  a  bet  goes  with  a  burglar  to  rob  a  house  and 
enters  the  home  of  the  very  girl  he  has  just  been  flirting 
with  from  the  second  cabin  of  the  Lusitania.  In  Mr.  W. 
C.  DeMille's  melodrama,  "The  Woman,"  a  political  boss 
and  his  son-in-law  set  out  to  ruin  a  woman  unknown,  who 
proves  to  be  the  former's  daughter  and  the  latter's  wife. 
Each  of  these  plays  has  won  its  measure  of  success,  I  am 
sure,  not  because,  but  rather  in  spite  of  this  sort  of  expe- 
dient. 


DEVICES  AND  CONVENTIONS  125 

One  hastens  to  admit  that  it  is  evident  from  the  box- 
office  records  that  this  frequent  use  of  coincidence — let 
the  critics  rail  as  they  will — is  condoned.  In  that  exceed- 
ingly popular  play,  "The  Man  from  Home,"  for  example, 
the  personage  whom  the  unsuspecting  hero  makes  friends 
with  and  thereafter  addresses  as  "Doc,"  turns  out  to 
be  the  very  Russian  grand  duke  whose  intervention  can 
save  the  Kokomo  lawyer's  protege.  When  presently, 
moreover,  this  fugitive  proves  to  be  the  former  husband  of 
the  woman  who  is  conspiring  to  ensnare  the  hero's  ward, 
the  agglomeration  of  the  fortuitous  becomes  fairly 
bewildering.  When  Victor  Hugo  abuses  the  arbitrary,  as 
in  "Ruy  Bias,"  Sarcey  explains  that  it  is  no  great  matter, 
since  over  "this  strange  fairy  tale"  is  flung  "the  purple  of 
his  poetry."1  The  French  critic  finds  excuse  in  the  fact 
that  "Ruy  Bias"  is  "precisely  a  marvel  of  style  and  of 
versification  .  .  .  Et  quel  vers!  comme  U  est  toujours 
plein  et  sonore!"  It  would  be  interesting  to  consider  the 
possible  excuses  that  might  be  offered  in  the  case  of  "  The 
Man  from  Home." 

In  the  writing  of  serious  plays,  by  all  means  the  beginner 
should  avoid  the  fortuitous  coincidence  that  makes 
dramatic  problem-solving  over-easy. 

Generally  speaking,  the  expedient  may  be  safely  em- 
ployed in  the  serious  modern  realistic  drama  only — to  adapt 
Sarcey's  familiar  and  often  quoted  principle — when  it 
brings  about  comparatively  unimportant  changes.  Mon- 
sieur Tristan  Bernard,  speaking  of  his  play  "Le  Danseur 
inconnu,"  observes  that  "  the  events  in  it  are  ordered  some- 

1  Compare  A  Study  of  the  Drama,  Brander  Matthews,  page  207. 


126  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

times  through  the  will  of  the  personages,  as  in  comedie  de 
caractere,  sometimes  by  pure  chance,  as  in  comidie 
romanesque.  And  is  it  not  thus,  after  all,"  he  queries, 
"that  it  happens  in  life,  wherein  we  labor  to  construct  our 
destiny  with  our  own  energies  and  the  collaboration, 
benevolent  or  malign,  of  fate?"  Because  it  is  thus  in 
life,  however,  by  no  means  makes  it  necessarily  correct  in 
art. 

Certainly,  in  the  more  artificial  forms — the  variants  of 
farce  and  melodrama — coincidence  may  be  used  much 
more  freely.  Time  was — and  that  not  so  very  long  ago — 
when  the  romantic  costume  melodrama,  with  all  its 
extravagances  of  arbitrary  plotting,  was  the  most  popular 
form  of  stage  amusement.  To-day,  however,  when  the 
fashion  calls  for  an  approximation  of  life,  unexaggerated, 
unemphasized,  even  unselected,  the  coincidental  is  largely 
under  the  ban.  First-nighters  show  their  sophistication 
by  laughing  at  it,  in  their  sleeves  if  not  openly,  as  they 
have  been  known  to  laugh  at  the  use  of  the  "apart,"  the 
"aside,"  and  the  soliloquy. 

Weak  Illusions 

What  future  decades  will  find  amusing  in  the  other  con- 
ventions of  our  present-day  stage,  it  is,  of  course,  impossi- 
ble to  predict.  Undoubtedly,  however,  we  are  accept- 
ing quite  soberly  what  will  eventually  serve  as  food  for 
ridicule.  We  still  allow  ourselves  to  be  startled,  thrilled, 
emotionally  played  upon  by  all  manner  of  childlike 
devices,  some — but  not  all — depending  upon  an  elusive 


DEVICES   AND   CONVENTIONS  127 

novelty  for  their  effect.  Sophisticated  audiences  of  to-day 
that  scorn  the  soliloquy,  for  instance,  yet  find  little  diffi- 
culty in  accepting  such  an  expedient  as  that  employed 
in  Mr.  Edgar  Wallace's  "Switchboard,"  wherein  an 
exchange  girl  hears,  presumably  over  the  telephone,  the 
remarks  of  numerous  actors  concealed  behind  a  thin  cur- 
tain. What  seems  most  to  matter  is  whether  the  partic- 
ular device  happens  to  be  in  or  out  of  fashion. 

I  know  of  few  more  interesting  subjects  connected  with 
the  stage  than  that  of  the  conventions  on  which  the  illu- 
sion of  the  theatre  is  based — a  subject,  by  the  way,  which 
Sarcey  has  treated  at  length  in  his  "Quarante  Am  de 
The&tre."  How  these  conventions  vary  in  different  lands 
and  periods,  we  need  not  here  discuss.  A  single  instance, 
however,  may  be  cited.  In  Monsieur  Rostand's  miracle 
play,  "La  Samaritaine"  there  is  a  scene  in  which  various 
disciples  hold  a  discussion  intended  to  be  delivered  in 
a  "stage  whisper."  When  the  Master,  who  is  across 
the  stage,  breaks  into  the  conversation,  they  are  amazed 
at  His  presumably  miraculous  hearing.  As  the  specta- 
tors have  heard  very  plainly  all  that  has  been  said,  how- 
ever, they  do  not  share  in  the  disciples'  astonishment. 
Instead,  at  least  here  in  America,  a  discordant  titter 
passes  over  the  audience,  when  Peter  exclaims  somewhat 
grotesquely,  "He  hears  everything!" 

Trite  Expedients 

There  is  a  manifest  distinction  between  stage  conven- 
tions and  stage  conventionalities.  The  former  are  largely 


128  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

necessitated  by  the  physical  conditions  of  theatrical 
representation.  The  latter,  however,  are  chiefly  the  result 
of  a  lazy  uninventiveness  on  the  part  of  playwrights  who 
prefer  following  beaten  paths  to  striking  out  into  newer 
territory.  By  dint  of  much  repetition  a  vast  number  of 
stage  expedients  have  become  thoroughly  hackneyed  and, 
for  the  time  being  at  least,  should  be  regarded  as  taboo  by 
amateur  dramatists.  Persecuted  foundlings  who  turn  out 
to  be  noblemen's  heirs,  hidden  wills,  dropped  or  miscarried 
letters,  and  innocent  ladies  caught  in  villains'  apartments, 
are  no  longer  so  useful  for  dramatic  purposes  as  they  were 
when  they  were  new — if,  indeed,  they  ever  were  new. 
Still,  they  are  constantly  turning  up,  even  in  our  modern 
realistic  drama.  The  marked  libretto  that  Elinor  Clayton 
drops  in  the  second  act  of  "As  a  Man  Thinks"  is  prob- 
ably only  a  variant  of  the  lost  handkerchief  or  fan  of 
ancient  vintage.  In  "The  Thunderbolt"  Sir  Arthur 
Pinero  boldly — and  superbly — deals  with  the  stolen  will 
and  the  cross-examined  woman. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  impossible  to  go  very  far  in  drama 
without  being  obliged  to  make  use  of  one  or  more  antiques. 
In  that  event,  it  were  doubtless  better  to  select  such  as 
have  not  been  especially  overworked  in  recent  days. 
When,  for  example,  "The  Lady  from  Oklahoma"  was 
produced,  it  was  found  to  deal  with  two  conventionalities 
that  had  already  been  exploited  during  the  season:  the 
neglected  wife  who  wins  back  her  successful  husband's 
interest,  as  in  "The  Governor's  Lady;"  and  the  faded 
woman  who  regains  her  bloom  artificially,  as  in  "Years  of 
Discretion."  The  fact  that  "The  Lady  from  Oklahoma" 


DEVICES  AND  CONVENTIONS  I2Q 

had  been  written  before  either  of  the  other  pieces  did  not 
save  it  from  failure.  That,  however,  was  the  author's 
misfortune,  not  his  fault. 

The  following  satirical  recipes  for  conventional  plays, 
taken  from  the  New  York  Dramatic  Mirror,  may  well 
serve  to  warn  the  beginner  with  regard  to  several  dramatic 
schemes  he  should  sedulously  avoid: 

POLITICAL  PLAY — A  boss,  thick-necked  and  large  of 
stature,  who  talks  in  a  bullying  tone  and  smokes  fat  cigars 
at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  and  who  in  the  end  is 
completely  outwitted  by  a  resourceful  little  girl  weighing 
about  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds. 

COMEDY  OF  MANNERS — New  twist  given  to  Oscar 
Wilde's  epigrams.  At  least  two  butlers.  In  tea  scenes 
characters  must  wear  summery  clothes  and  discuss  with 
just  a  trace  of  malice  the  approaching  nuptials  of  Lady 
Vere  de  Vera  Rich.  In  last  act  dress  clothes  are  essential. 

AMERICAN  PROBLEM  PLAY — Woman  must  visit  man's 
apartment  at  night  unescorted.  Extravagance  of  the  wife 
discovered  at  10:15,  after  which  there  must  follow  a 
stormy  repetition  of  "Why  did  you  do  it?"  until  the 
climax  is  reached  by  the  demolition  of  the  chamber  door. 

AMERICAN  MELODRAMA — One  Colt  automatic.  One 
stupid  and  heartless  detective.  One  or  more  slangy 
women  characters,  who  furnish  comedy  relief.  Theme  to 
concern  the  chief  form  of  whatever  vice  or  corruption  is 
occupying  the  immediate  attention  of  the  public. 

RURAL  COMEDY  OF  PRESENT  TIME — A  broken-down 
emporium  run  by  a  lazy,  shiftless  individual  in  the  first 


130  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

act.  A  well-kept  emporium  run  by  an  energetic,  ambitious 
individual  in  the  last  act.  Reason?  A  good-looking  vixen 
who  knows  the  art  of  flattery. 

RURAL  COMEDY  OF  PAST  TIME — City  chap  with  riding 
breeches.  One  mortgage  on  the  farm.  A  ruined  daughter 
and  an  erring  son.  One  saw-mill. 

If  it  is  hard  to  avoid  the  trite  in  the  construction  of  plots, 
it  is  possible  to  make  up  for  such  defects  by  means  of 
novelty — more  especially  of  truth — of  characterization. 
Plots  are  necessarily  artificial,  but  human  nature  is  always 
new  and  always  a  fact.  Seeking  reality  wherever  he  can 
find  it,  the  latter-day  playwright  can  follow  no  better 
course  than  that  outlined  by  Stevenson  in  one  of  his 
essays.  "Let  him,"  writes  this  high  authority,  "choose  a 
motive,  whether  of  character  or  of  passion;  carefully  con- 
struct his  plot  so  that  every  incident  is  an  illustration  of 
the  motive,  and  every  property  employed  shall  bear  to  it 
a  near  relation  of  congruity  or  contrast;  avoid  a  sub-plot, 
unless,  as  sometimes  in  Shakespeare,  the  sub-plot  be  a 
reversion  or  complement  of  the  main  intrigue;  .  .  .  and 
allow  no  ...  character  in  the  course  of  the  dialogue  to 
utter  one  sentence  that  is  not  part  and  parcel  of  the  busi- 
ness of  the  story."  And,  as  the  root  of  the  whole  matter, 
continues  R.  L.  S.,  whose  words  concern  the  novel  but 
apply  equally  to  the  play,  it  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
work  "is  not  a  transcript  of  life,  to  be  judged  by  its 
exactitude,  but  a  simplification  of  some  side  or  point  of 
life,  to  stand  or  fall  by  its  significant  simplicity." 

"The  germ  of  a  story  with  him,"  asserts  Henry  James 


DEVICES   AND  CONVENTIONS  131 

in  writing  of  Turgenieff,"  was  never  an  affair  of  plot — that 
was  the  last  thing  he  thought  of:  it  was  the  representation 
of  certain  persons."  The  critic  goes  on  to  explain,  how- 
ever, that  Turgenieff  realized  his  own  defect — want  of 
"architecture,"  or  composition.  The  playwright  is  rather 
more  dependent  upon  this  element  of  "architecture"  than 
is  the  novelist;  but  he  is  none  the  less  obligated — if  he 
takes  his  art  at  all  seriously — to  the  utmost  veracity  in 
"the  representation  of  certain  persons." 

It  is  obvious  that  the  skilful  dramatist  will  make  full  use 
of  the  many  legitimate  devices  of  his  craft.  He  will,  for 
instance,  provide  the  element  of  relief  and  variety  through 
humor  and  especially  through  contrast.  He  will  bear  in 
mind  that  humor  of  plot  or  of  character  is  usually  the 
most  telling  and  certainly  the  most  dramatic.  He  will 
learn  to  look  askance  on  the  overworked  coincidence, 
which  so  often  mars  the  logic  of  characterization,  and 
which  is  generally  regarded  as  "old-fashioned."  In  fact, 
he  will — so  long  as  our  modern  realistic  attitude  prevails — 
ignore  illusion-shattering  expedients  of  every  sort  and 
devote  himself  to  those  conventions  which  are  the  founda- 
tion of  verisimilitude.  Above  all  things,  the  painstaking 
playwright  will  scrupulously  avoid  hackneyed  themes, 
situations,  and  types,  and  depend  for  his  material  upon 
first-hand  observation  of  human  nature. 


QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

i.  From  any  plays,  give  examples  of  the  distinctions 
between  humor  of  dialogue,  of  plot,  and  of  character. 


132  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

2.  Do  the  same  by  giving  original  examples.    Repeat 
this  exercise  at  your  own  option,  or  that  of  the  instructor. 

3.  Substitute  a  more  natural  and  convincing  device  for 
any  one  of  the  weak  coincidences  cited  in  this  chapter. 

4.  Cite  an  instance  you  have  observed  or  read  in  a  play 
in  which  mere  coincidence  is  made  more  plausible  by 
fresh  and  clever  handling. 

NOTE:  The  student  of  drama  can  undertake  no  more 
helpful  exercise  than  the  practice  of  inventing  fresh  devices 
to  take  the  place  of  lame  coincidences  in  plays  seen,  read, 
and  offered  in  the  class-room.  This  exercise  should  be 
continued  until  real  invention  is  shown. 

5.  Devise  a  plan  to  do  away  with  the  necessity  for  the 
use  of  (a)  the  "aside,"  (b)  the  "apart,"  (c)  the  "soliloquy," 
in  some  definite  case  you  may  either  invent  or  cite  from 
a  play. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE   CHARACTERS 

There  is  a  gallery  of  them,  and  of  all  that  gallery  I  may  say 
that  I  know  the  tone  of  the  voice,  and  the  color  of  the  hair,  every 
flame  of  the  eye,  and  the  very  clothes  they  wear.  Of  each  man 
I  could  assert  whether  he  would  have  said  these  words  or  the 
other  words;  of  every  woman,  whether  she  would  then  have 
smiled  or  so  have  frowned.  When  I  shall  feel  that  this  intimacy 
ceases,  then  I  shall  know  that  the  old  horse  should  be  turned 
out  to  grass. — ANTHONY  TROLLOPE,  Autobiography. 

The  characters  must  be  real,  and  such  as  might  be  met  with  in 
actual  life,  or,  at  least,  the  natural  developments  of  such  people 
as  any  of  us  might  meet;  their  actions  must  be  natural  and  con- 
sistent; the  conditions  of  place,  of  manners,  and  of  thought  must 
be  drawn  from  personal  observation.  To  take  an  extreme  case: 
a  young  lady  brought  up  in  a  quiet  country  village  should  avoid 
descriptions  of  garrison  life;  a  writer  whose  friends  and  personal 
experiences  belong  to  what  we  call  the  lower  middle  class  should 
carefully  avoid  introducing  his  characters  into  Society. — SIR 
WALTER  BESANT,  The  Art  of  Fiction. 

Since  characters  in  plays  are  supposed  to  be  drawn  from 
real  life,  the  playwright's  success  will  obviously  depend, 
first,  on  his  powers  of  observation;  and,  second,  on  his 
ability  to  portray  what  he  observes.  Neither  of  these 
qualifications  can  be  acquired  through  the  study  of  rules. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  American  collegians  have  had 
some  four  years  of  experience  with  the  amusing  types  that 
animate  "The  College  Widow,"  but  only  Mr.  George  Ade 
has  had  the  gifts  and  the  enterprise  to  reproduce  them  for 


134  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

the  stage.  "Why  couldn't  I  have  done  that?"  is  the 
question  the  amateur  writer  invariably  asks  himself  when 
he  has  come  in  contact  with  so  simple,  yet  so  veracious 
and  just  a  piece  of  work  as  the  character  drawing  in  "The 
County  Chairman"  or  in  "The  Pigeon"  or  in  "Outcast." 
Oftenest  the  reason  lies  in  an  inherent  lack  of  aptitude. 
At  any  rate,  without  the  ability  to  observe  and  the  skill  to 
reproduce,  no  writer  can  hope  to  learn  the  processes  of 
character  portrayal.  One  can,  however,  profit  by  certain 
general  suggestions. 

Aristotle  called  action  the  essential  in  drama;  but,  just 
as  in  literature,  form,  which  is  essential,  is  less  important 
than  content,  so  it  is  with  story  in  the  drama,  as  com- 
pared with  the  characterization.  This  is,  of  course,  truer 
in  the  case  of  comedy  and  tragedy — character  plays — than 
in  that  of  melodrama  and  farce — story  plays;  though  it  is 
in  any  event  next  to  impossible  to  insist  upon  either 
element  alone,  simply  because  character  is  necessarily 
portrayed  in  action,  and  action  is  ever  resultant  upon 
character. 

Planning  the  List  of  Characters 

In  devising  a  drama  the  author  will  probably  determine 
early  whether  he  will  use  few  or  many  characters,  and 
whether  they  are  to  be  portrayed  in  detail  or  merely 
sketched.  Character  plays  require  more,  story  plays 
fewer  elaborately  drawn  figures.  A  farce  or  a  melodrama 
can  get  along  very  nicely  with  a  group  of  easily  recognized 
types.  A  comedy  or  a  tragedy  will  want  at  least  one  or 
more  highly  individualized  personages  to  give  it  a  reason 


THE  CHARACTERS  135 

for  being.  And  farce  and  melodrama  will,  in  all  likelihood, 
be  lifted  into  the  realm  of  comedy  and  tragedy  by  the 
development  of  the  types  into  individuals,  of  outlines  into 
portraits.  Of  this  distinction,  more  presently. 

It  has  often  been  pointed  out  that  the  drama  relies  for 
permanency  upon  its  characterizations.  There  are,  of 
course,  some  plays  of  plot  enacted  by  mere  puppets, 
which  flourish  for  a  season — or  oftener  less.  There  are 
other  plays  of  slight  story-interest  which  endure  because 
of  the  real  men  and  women  that  animate  them.  Literary 
qualities  aside,  "A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts"  is  impor- 
tant chiefly  as  the  setting  for  Sir  Giles  Overreach.  So 
"Caste"  emerges  from  the  mass  of  Victorian  stage  con- 
ventionality because  of  the  Eccles  family  and  their 
friends.  What  were  "Liberty  Hall"  without  the  lovable 
old  bookseller?  Or  "The  Drone"  without  that  prepos- 
terous fraud,  Daniel  Murray?  "Hindle  Wakes"  is  valu- 
able for  its  headstrong  Lancashire  folk.  "Pomander 
Walk"  we  love  for  its  crusty  admiral,  its  pompous  butler, 
its  figures  out  of  Elia.  "Chains"  is  fundamentally  a 
human  document.  Truly  we  cherish  the  classics  much 
more  for  their  soul-portraits  than  for  their  antique  fables. 


The  Place  of  Realism  in  Characterization 

Latter-day  realism  and  naturalism,  indeed,  have  tended 
toward  over-emphasis  upon  the  element  of  characteriza- 
tion. Disdaining  all  the  artifices  of  the  theatre,  the 
realistic  playwright  has  sought  a  photographic  reproduc- 
tion of  nature.  Artistic  selection,  it  has  been  argued,  has 


136  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

become  excessively  facile  and  therefore  self-conscious: 
we  must  "return  to  nature"  and  throw  technique  to  the 
dogs.  As  we  have  seen,  to  such  reformers  whatever 
savors  of  the  theatre,  even  by  remote  suggestion,  is  to  be 
avoided  as  the  pestilence.  There  must  be  no  more  climax 
and  solution;  no  more  situation  and  plot;  no  hero  or 
heroine  even;  no  beginning  and  no  end.  The  recipe  is: 
Take  two  hours  out  of  real  life  and  put  them — absolutely 
without  change — upon  the  stage.  Of  course,  a  million 
chances  to  one  there  will  be  no  plot.  By  the  same  token 
there  will  be  an  immense  surplus  of  the  insignificant  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed.  This  will  be  so,  even  though  a 
crucial  two  hours  be  chosen.  And  it  is  doubtful  whether 
extreme  naturalism  would  really  permit  such  a  choice. 
Plot  being  eliminated,  at  any  rate  characterization  will 
remain.  Obviously  it  too  will  be  without  selection,  if  it  is 
orthodox.  And  it  is  equally  obvious  that  plays  so  written 
will  hardly  succeed  in  getting  anywhere. 

Unquestionably  there  has  been  a  great  need  for  this  sort 
of  reaction.  Unquestionably,  too,  it  provides  its  own 
automatic  check.  The  excesses  of  romanticism  and  the 
artificial  have  been  as  notorious  as  the  excesses  of  classicism 
and  the  artificial.  The  "return  to  nature"  is  the  only 
remedy  in  either  case.  And  after  we  have  had  a  surfeit  of 
nature,  there  will  always  be  the  return  to  art.  After  all, 
humanity  loves  to  improve  on  the  natural;  to  set  the 
imagination  to  work;  to  combine,  select,  proportion;  to 
build  the  ideal;  to  rise. 

The  recent  Irish  drama  has  sometimes  been  cited  as 
exemplary  of  extreme  modern  realism.  It  is  true  that 


THE  CHARACTERS  137 

character,  rather  than  plot,  is  stressed  in  the  majority  of 
the  Irish  plays,  for  they  are,  most  of  them,  either  comedy 
or  tragedy.  "Lady  Gregory,"  writes  one  critic,1  "does 
not  work  the  situation  up  to  any  emphatic  climax;  but, 
having  opened  a  momentary  little  vista  upon  life,  she 
smilingly  remarks  'That's  all'  and  rings  the  curtain 
down."  This  would  seem  to  be  fitting  facts  rather  hastily 
to  a  theory.  Surely  there  is  true  farce  climax  in  "  Hyacinth 
Halvy,"  true  tragic  climax  in  "The  Gaol  Gate,"  true 
melodramatic  climax  in  "The  Rising  of  the  Moon,"  true 
dramatic  structure  and  climax  in  an  entire  group  of  her 
little  comedies.  Moreover,  there  is  in  practically  all  the 
Irish  plays  not  only  admirable  characterization,  but  well- 
defined  plot,  having  in  all  case3  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and 
an  end.  The  fact  is  that  the  Irish  dramatists — Synge  and 
Yeats  and  Ervine  and  Murray  and  Lady  Gregory  and  all 
the  rest — instead  of  discarding  dramatic  technique,  have 
refreshed  and  revivified  it  with  their  simple  artistry  in  the 
manipulation  of  the  actual.  Doubtless  their  success  is 
chiefly  founded  on  veracious  characterization;  and  this, 
in  turn,  is  satisfying  because  it  is  sure. 

The  Sources  of  Character  Material 

Where  does  the  dramatist  acquire  the  material  he  must 
work  over  into  the  characterization  of  his  plays?  From 
observation,  primarily,  as  has  been  said;  though  also,  in 
part,  from  reading,  from  hearsay,  and  from  a  combination 
of  these  sources.  Moving  through  life,  he  notes  the 

1  Studies  in  Stagecraft,  Clayton  Hamilton,  page  133. 


138  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

peculiarities,  the  eccentricities,  the  special  qualities  that 
go  with  this,  that,  or  the  other  mental  and  physical 
make-up.  He  ponders  and  selects  and  rearranges. 
Sometimes  he  reproduces  on  the  stage  a  figure  accurately 
drawn  from  a  single  living  model.  More  often  he  con- 
structs harmonious  combinations  built  of  the  shreds  and 
patches  of  long  experience.  Strangely  enough,  characters 
composed  after  this  latter  plan  are  often  the  best:  there 
are  few  figures  in  real  life  that  can  be  transplanted  bodily 
to  the  stage  and  yet  remain  effective.  Selection  and  com- 
bination judiciously  performed  usually  produce  the  finest 
results.  There  is  no  rule  for  this  labor.  One  man  will 
work  marvels  with  materials  that  others  can  only  botch 
into  chaos.  Books  and  teachers  can  say  little,  other  than 
to  warn  against  excess  and  to  advise  reliance  upon  personal 
knowledge. 

The  following  humorous  account  of  first-hand  character 
observation  is  credited  by  the  New  York  Evening  Sun  to 
Mr.  Earl  Derr  Biggers.  It  should  be  most  suggestive  to 
the  beginner  at  play  or  other  fiction  writing. 

"Scarcely  a  single  character  that  appears  in  'Inside 
the  Lines,'  my  war  play,"  said  Mr.  Biggers,  "is  a  native 
of  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar,  where  the  scene  is  laid.  They 
all  owe  allegiance  to  countries  far  away,  and  often  by 
wistful  little  speeches  they  show  that  they  are  thinking 
of  'the  old  home  town.' 

"Of  all  these  homesick  people  the  one  to  whom  my  own 
sympathies  go  out  most  generously  is  Sherman  from 
Kewanee.  I  am  sure  that  his  type — the  rich  old  man 
dragged  through  Europe  by  his  family— has  long  been  a 


THE  CHARACTERS  139 

favorite  with  cartoonists  and  humorists;  but  it  was  not 
from  this  source  I  took  him.  I  have  met  him  often  in  real 
life.  And  I  have  never  known  him  but  to  love  him.  He 
is  so  wonderfully  human. 

"The  first  time  I  met  a  Sherman  in  real  life  was  when 
I  was  a  boy  in  a  little  town  in  the  middle  West.  ...  I 
guess  he  was  about  the  first  man  from  our  town  to  go 
abroad.  He  was  president  of  the  First  National  Bank, 
had  all  the  honors  that  go  with  it,  and  was  a  happy  man 
until  his  wife  got  the  European  fever. 

"They  went,  of  course.  A.  D.  said  a  long  farewell  to 
all  the  boys  along  Main  Street,  got  on  a  train  at  the  Erie 
station,  and  disappeared  for  a  season.  The  only  word 
that  came  from  him  during  his  trip  was  received  by  a  man 
who  had  a  nephew  in  the  diplomatic  service  somewhere 
on  the  other  side.  The  boy  wrote  that  A.  D.  was  glooming 
his  way  through  Europe  and  bemoaning  the  fact  that  he 
wasn't  able  to  meet  up  with  a  piece  of  squash  pie. 

"A.  D.  got  back  at  last,  and  the  only  information  any- 
body was  able  to  get  out  of  him  about  the  'old  country' 
was  the  statement  that '  there's  an  awful  lot  of  room  going 
to  waste  in  them  old  castles  over  there.'  He  lived  ten 
years  longer  and  referred  frequently  to  the  scandalous 
number  of  empty  rooms  'all  fixed  up  and  nobody  livin'  in 
'em.'  The  boys  at  the  bank  said  they  would  often  come 
upon  him,  sitting  sad  and  disconsolate,  brooding  over  the 
wasted  castle  room  of  Europe.  I  imagine  at  such  times 
he  was  fixing  up  the  Grand  Trianon  or  Sans  Souci  as  a 
first-class  boarding  and  rooming  house. 

"The  last  Sherman  I  met,"  continued  Mr.  Biggers, 


I4O  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

"was  a  fine,  sweet  old  character  who  crossed  with  us  to 
Naples  last  spring.  Like  A.  D.,  he  had  Europe  coming  to 
him,  and  he  was  the  kind  that  makes  the  best  of  things. 
Every  morning  his  daughter  gave  him  a  guide  book  with 
instructions  to  bone  up  on  Rubens  and  the  rest,  but  safe 
inside  the  smoking  room  he  put  it  away  and  told  us  about 
the  boys  back  in  Ada,  Ohio,  where  he  came  from,  and  how 
glad  he'd  be  to  get  back. 

"I  used  to  come  upon  him  late  at  night,  smoking  a 
cigar  quietly  in  a  corner  and  looking  out  over  the  water 
in  the  wake  of  the  ship — out  toward  Ada.  Then  he'd  tell 
me  about  his  eldest  son,  who  was  a  lawyer  and  'doing 
fine,'  and  of  his  house,  and  his  garden,  and  the  neighbors, 
and  the  spring  election,  and  the  time  Garfield  spoke 
in  Ada. 

"He  and  I  stood  together  on  the  deck  the  afternoon  we 
came  into  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  saw  the  villas  of  the 
town  lying  white  and  wonderful  at  the  foot  of  the  famous 
mountains.  Below  us  the  steerage,  mostly  Italian,  was 
like  a  bleachers  crowd  at  a  ball  game  with  the  home  team 
winning — frantic  with  joy,  climbing  high  in  the  rigging 
to  get  the  first  glimpse,  cheering,  mad. 

"The  Italian  doctor,  a  silent,  fat  little  man,  came 
running  up  to  us,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  shining. 

"  'See,  gentlemen,'  he  cried,  'that  little  patch  of  the 
white  at  the  foot  of  old  Vesuve.  That  is  my  town — my 
home — I  go  there  to-night.  Not  for  a  year  have  I  seen 
it — my  own  town  so  beautiful.' 

"The  old  boy  from  Ada  straightened  up  and  showed 
more  interest  than  ever  before. 


THE  CHARACTERS  141 

"  'By  golly,'  he  said,  as  the  doctor  left  us,  'it's  hard  to 
realize — it  all  looks  so  foreign — I  suppose  he  does  live 
there.  That  makes  the  whole  landscape  real  for  me.  I 
can  just  see  him  jumping  off  the  train — running  up  Main 
Street — the  town  traveller,  home  again.  I  suppose 
to-night  he'll  be  down  at  the  cigar  store  telling  the  boys 
what  he's  seen  on  his  travels.' 

"I  saw  my  friend  from  Ada  a  moment  that  evening 
after  the  ship  had  docked.  It  was  Saturday  night  in 
Naples;  the  stars  had  begun  to  twinkle  up  above  the 
unlovely  old  warehouses  along  the  waterfront;  alongside 
our  ship  amateur  Carusos  in  leaky  boats  were  warbling 
1O  sole  mia'  to  the  twang  of  hoarse  guitars.  We  were 
watching  our  baggage  as  it  was  trundled  down  a  precipitous 
gangplank  and  through  a  hooting  mob  to  the  customs. 
The  man  from  Ada  was  nervous. 

"  "They  didn't  give  us  any  checks  for  the  trunks,'  he 
complained.  'I  hate  to  let  things  go  without  checks. 
How  am  I  going  to  get  them  back  from  that  mob  of  dagos 
that  don't  speak  a  human  tongue?  I  tell  you  we  do  things 
better  out  in  Ada.' 

"  Somebody  gave  a  shove,  and  we  all  went  hastily  down 
that  gangplank  into  Italy. 

"Four  months  passed,  and  I  saw  my  friend  from  Ada 
again — in  London  it  was,  on  the  Strand.  He  was  smiling, 
happy. 

"  'Passage  booked — sail  to-morrow,'  he  said.  'Going 
back  to  Ada.  I  figure  I'll  get  there  two  weeks  from 
Thursday — band  concert  night.  I  can  sit  on  my  porch 
and  hear  'em  play  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner."  Say, 


142  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

those  boys  in  Naples  sure  was  out  for  the  tips,  wasn't 
they?' 

"  'What  did  you  like  best  in  Naples?'  I  asked. 

"  'The  braying  of  the  donkeys  under  our  windows,' 
said  the  original  of  Sherman  from  Kewanee.  'Do  you 
know,  it  sounded  for  all  the  world  like  the  blowing  of  the 
factory  whistles  at  noon  in  Ada?'  " 

The  history  of  the  stage  is  full  of  examples  of  failure  due 
largely  to  the  attempt  to  picture  phases  of  life  with  which 
the  author  was  himself  unfamiliar.  Mr.  Jerome  K. 
Jerome  has  given  us  some  unforgettable  portraits  drawn 
from  London  boarding-house  life.  When  he  has  tried  to 
depict  the  less  familiar  environment  of  the  New  York 
drawing-room,  in  "Esther  Castways,"  however,  he  has 
failed  to  convince  even  London  critics  of  the  truthfulness 
of  his  work.  Mr.  Stanley  Houghton,  likewise,  knew  his 
Lancashire  from  A  to  Z;  but  his  presentation  of  the 
cabinet  ministers  in  "Trust  the  People"  is  far  from  real. 
Indeed,  the  last  act  of  this  play,  which  returns  to  his  own 
peculiar  locale,  seems  strikingly  true  in  contrast  with 
what  has  gone  before.  Perhaps  the  chief  secret  of  the 
success  of  the  Irish  playwrights  has  lain  in  the  fidelity 
with  which  they  have  clung  to  familiar  settings  and  people 
in  all  their  work.  They  have  made  their  observations  of 
humanity  always  at  first  hand;  and,  in  consequence, 
mere  "stock"  rdles  or  types  have  not  sufficed  for  the 
animation  of  their  stage. 

"What  I  insist  upon,"  wrote  Francisque  Sarcey,  in  a 
feuilleton  dealing  with  "Les  Idees  de  Mme.  Aubray,"  "is 
that  the  personage  be  consistent  to  the  end  with  the  char- 


THE   CHARACTERS  143 

acter  the  author  has  given  him,  that  he  have  a  particular 
physiognomy,  that  he  be  living.  ...  I  reproach  the  fig- 
ures in  "La  Femme  de  Claude,1'  not  with  being  symbolical, 
but  with  being  not  alive.  Never,  no,  never  will  an  abstrac- 
tion, or,  if  you  prefer,  an  entity,  interest  me  at  the  theatre, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  I  do  not  go  there  to  see  entities 
which  symbolize  ideas,  but  rather  beings  of  flesh  and 
blood,  who  suffer  and  weep  as  I  do,  in  whom  I  find  the 
echo  of  my  own  joys  and  sorrows — in  a  word,  beings 
that  live." 

The  playwright's  source  of  material  is  Life.  From  what 
he  sees  of  his  fellow  beings  in  all  manner  of  circumstances, 
he  selects  those  traits  of  character  which  to  him  seem  sig- 
nificant and  adapted  to  his  purpose.  By  a  process  of  com- 
bination and  condensation  he  achieves  his  figures,  letting 
them  develop  always  in  strict  accord  with  logic.  If  he 
hopes  to  make  them  in  any  sense  credible  and  real,  he 
will  draw  them  solely  from  his  own  personal  experience. 
And,  above  all  things,  if  he  have  the  gift  to  do  it,  from 
curtain  to  curtain  throughout  his  drama  he  will  make 
them  live. 

NOTE:  The  Questions  and  Exercises  appended  to  the 
next  chapter  cover  also  the  contents  of  this  one. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS   AND   LIFE 

Addison  had  sketched  the  Tory  fox-hunter,  clothing  him  in 
the  characteristics  of  the  class,  "that  he  might  give  his  readers 
an  image  of  these  rural  statesmen."  Squire  Western  has  all  the 
distinguishing  marks  of  Addison's  type,  and  beyond  this,  he  is 
individualized. — WILBUR  L.  CROSS,  The  Development  of  the 
English  Novel. 

Verisimilitude,  a  quality  much  insisted  on  at  this  time  [the 
eighteenth  century],  and  in  origin  a  restricted  interpretation  of 
Aristotle's  preference  for  the  probable,  was  exalted  into  a 
tyrannical  principle  which  again  excluded  the  individual,  in  its 
fear  of  the  abnormal  or  self-contradictory,  and  reduced  the 
delineation  of  character  to  a  simplicity  which  belied  human 
nature.  A  king  must  be  kingly,  and  nothing  else;  an  official 
must  be  officious,  and  nothing  else;  a  maid  must  be  modest, 
and  nothing  else;  and  so  through  the  whole  range  of  humanity; 
until  in  the  perfection  of  decorum  and  verisimilitude,  all  interest 
evaporated,  and  a  dead  monotony  reigned. — WILLIAM  ALLAN 
NEILSON,  Essentials  of  Poetry. 


Individual  and  Type 

In  all  fiction,  of  course,  the  individual  is  very  much  more 
delimited  and  defined  than  the  type,  which  stands  for  a 
whole  species  in  the  genus  homo.  The  swashbuckler,  the 
hypocrite,  the  villain  are  types;  Falstaff,  Tartuffe,  lago 
are  individuals.  "Why  is  it,"  inquires  Professor  Bliss 
Perry,1  "that  the  artist  allows  himself  to  substitute 

1  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS  AND   LIFE  145 

typical  for  individual  traits  and  hence  to  lose  the  power 
of  imparting  a  sense  of  actuality  to  his  fictitious  per- 
sonages? It  is  often  true,  no  doubt,  that  the  author  fails 
to  see  clearly  what  he  wants  to  express.  He  falls  into 
abstract,  typical  delineation  through  mere  irresolution  or 
inattention,  or  it  may  be  the  over-fondness  for  what  he 
may  like  to  call  the  'ideal,'  that  is,  for  the  abstract  rather 
than  for  the  concrete.  .  .  .  Then,  too,  the  prevalence  of 
a  fashionable  artistic  type  is  often  found  to  overpower 
the  artist's  originality.  ...  In  the  third  place,  although 
the  fiction-writer  may  see  the  individual  with  perfect 
distinctness,  either  as  actually  present  before  him  or  in 
imaginative  vision,  he  may  nevertheless  not  be  able  to 
express  what  he  sees.  He  draws  the  general  characteris- 
tics of  the  type  rather  than  the  individual  characteristics 
of  the  person,  because  his  vocabulary  is  not  sufficiently 
delicate  and  precise  for  the  task  of  portrayal  .  .  .  The 
defect  is  chiefly  to  be  attributed  to  the  lack  of  training  in 
flexible  and  precise  expression.  .  .  .  We  have  had  cer- 
tain types  drawn  over  and  over  again  with  wearisome 
reiteration,  but  we  have  had  few  fictitious  personages 
who  have  given  us  the  impression  of  actuality.  It  must 
be  remembered  after  all  that  the  type  is,  in  the  last 
analysis,  only  a  subjective  abstraction.  ...  If  the  per- 
sonage be  so  drawn  as  to  convey  a  vivid  sense  of  reality, 
the  individual  characteristics  will  be  firmly  outlined;  and 
if  he  gives  ...  an  impression  of  moral  unity,  there  is 
little  doubt  that  he  will  in  the  true  sense  contain  the  type. 
For  the  type,  so  far  as  it  is  of  any  artistic  value,  is  implicit 
in  the  individual." 


146  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

All  this  was  said  primarily  of  the  novel,  but  it  is  equally 
applicable  to  the  drama.  In  the  theatre,  for  a  long  time 
now,  characters  have  been  grouped  in  certain  familiar 
categories:  the  "leads"  or  "straight"  parts — heroes  and 
heroines;  the  "eccentrics"  or  "character"  parts — odd 
and  whimsical  persons;  the  "heavies" — villains  and 
adventuresses;  the  "old  men"  and  "old  women"  and 
the  "juveniles;"  the  "ingenues"  and  "soubrettes;"  the 
"walking  gentlemen  and  ladies;"  the  "utility  men  and 
women;"  and  the  "supers,"  or  supernumeraries.  Obvi- 
ously such  a  cut-and-dried  classification  emphasizes  the 
preponderance  of  types  over  individuals  on  the  stage. 

The  present-day  tendency  is  to  individualize,  to  give 
to  every  figure,  whether  heroic  or  otherwise,  its  peculiar 
characteristics,  and  especially  to  reproduce  actuality  in 
the  matter  of  blending  the  good  and  the  bad,  the  attractive 
and  the  repellent,  in  men  and  women,  old  and  young. 
There  is  no  reason,  for  example,  why  the  "character  old 
man"  should  not  also  be  the  hero,  as  in  "Grumpy,"  or 
even  both  hero  and  villain,  as  in  "Rutherford  and  Son." 

The  old  stereotyped  set  of  characters  in  the  old  stereo- 
typed story  is,  in  fact,  no  longer  sufficient  on  our  serious 
stage.  These  things  were  of  the  theatre  merely — senti- 
mental claptrap  born  of  tradition  rather  than  of  truth. 
That  they  have  been  largely  displaced  by  more  worthy 
matter  is  manifestly  one  of  the  effects  of  modern  realism. 
To-day  the  first  step  toward  success  in  the  drama  is  the 
careful  choice  and  the  accurate  portrayal  of  real  human 
individuals.  Therein  only,  indeed,  can  reside  the  supremely 
desired  trait  of  freshness  and  novelty. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS  AND   LIFE  147 

Direct  and  Indirect  Characterization 

Scores  of  critics  have  reassured  us  as  to  the  fact  that 
the  playwright  is  naturally  limited,  in  his  depiction  of 
humanity,  to  the  self-revelatory  manners,  words,  and 
deeds  of  his  characters,  together  with  their  reactions  upon 
their  fellows  and  their  environment.  In  other  words,  the 
portrayal  of  character  upon  the  stage  may  be  either 
direct  or  indirect. 

Always  the  first  thing  to  be  remembered  is  the  truism 
that,  on  the  stage  as  in  real  life,  actions  speak  infinitely 
louder  and  more  distinctly  than  words.  We  may  take 
into  account,  in  making  up  our  final  estimate  of  a  man, 
what  he  tells  us  about  himself  and  what  his  friends  and 
enemies  tell  us  about  him;  but  we  will  be  influenced  in 
our  judgment — if  we  are  ordinarily  wise,  at  least — far 
more  by  what  we  see  him  do.  His  carriage,  his  manner, 
his  personal  habits,  and  his  conduct  in  the  commonplace 
as  well  as  in  the  crucial  moments  of  life — observation  of 
these  things  will  inevitably  guide  us  to  our  eventual 
verdict  upon  the  individual.  Of  course,  it  will  be  well  if 
his  deeds  and  his  words  harmonize — unless  he  be  meant 
for  a  hypocrite  or  a  villain.  Certainly  it  will  be  indis- 
pensable that  he  succeed  in  passing,  if  not  for  what  he 
himself  claims  to  be,  at  least  for  what  his  creator  obviously 
intends  him. 

Directly,  stage  personages  display  themselves  through 
action,  speech,  mannerisms,  class  and  professional  traits — 
through  conduct  in  incidents  which  reveal  character,  and 
in  situations  which  determine  it.  Indirectly,  they  are 
shown  by  means  of  their  effect  upon  others. 


148  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

The  character  of  Weinhold,  the  tutor  in  Hauptmann's 
"The  Weavers,"  briefly  sketched  as  it  is,  reveals  itself 
both  directly  and  indirectly  with  striking  clearness.  The 
author  does  not  even  indulge  in  a  long  stage  direction 
concerning  him,  but  merely  informs  us  that  he  is  "a 
theological  graduate,  nineteen,  pale,  thin,  tall,  with  lanky 
fair  hair;  restless  and  nervous  in  his  movements."  In  his 
first  remark  Weinhold  ventures  to  disagree  with  the  smug 
and  sententious  pastor  Kittelhaus,  who  has  just  opened 
the  fourth  act  by  observing  with  finality: 

"You  are  young,  Mr.  Weinhold,  which  explains  every- 
thing. At  your  age  we  old  fellows  held— well,  I  won't  say 
the  same  opinions — but  certainly  opinions  of  the  same 
tendency.  And  there's  something  fine  about  youth — 
youth  with  its  grand  ideals.  But,  unfortunately,  Mr. 
Weinhold,  they  don't  last;  they  are  as  fleeting  as  April 
sunshine.  Wait  till  you  are  my  age.  When  a  man  has 
said  his  say  from  the  pulpit  for  fifty  years — fifty-two 
times  every  year,  not  including  saints'  days — he  has 
inevitably  calmed  down.  Think  of  me,  Mr.  Weinhold, 
when  you  come  to  that  pass." 

"With  all  due  respect,  Mr.  Kittelhaus,"  hesitantly 
replies  the  tutor,  "I  can't  think — people  have  such  dif- 
ferent natures." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Weinhold,"  persists  the  pastor  reproach- 
fully, "however  restless-minded  and  unsettled  a  man  may 
be — and  you  are  a  case  in  point — however  violently  and 
wantonly  he  may  attack  the  existing  order  of  things,  he 
calms  down  in  the  end." 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  the  rebellious  weavers  are 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS  AND   LIFE  149 

heard  singing  in  the  street  outside,  Kittelhaus,  approach- 
ing the  window,  says,  "See,  see,  Mr.  Weinhold!  These 
are  not  only  young  people.  There  are  numbers  of  steady- 
going  old  weavers  among  them,  men  whom  I  have  known 
for  years  and  looked  upon  as  most  deserving  and  God- 
fearing. There  they  are,  taking  part  in  this  unheard-of 
mischief,  trampling  God's  law  under  foot.  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you  still  defend  these  people?" 

"Certainly  not,"  rejoins  Weinhold.  "That  is,  sir— 
cum  grano  sails.  For,  after  all,  they  are  hungry  and  they 
are  ignorant.  They  are  giving  expression  to  their  dis- 
satisfaction in  the  only  way  they  understand.  I  don't 
expect  that  such  people — " 

Mrs.  Kittelhaus,  "short,  thin,  faded,  more  like  an  old 
maid  than  a  married  woman,"  interrupts  reproachfully, 
"  Mr.  Weinhold,  Mr.  Weinhold,  how  can  you?  "  And  then 
Dreissiger,  the  tutor's  rich  employer,  bursts  forth,  "Mr. 
Weinhold,  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to — I  didn't  bring  you 
into  my  house  to  give  me  lectures  on  philanthropy,  and  I 
must  request  that  you  will  confine  yourself  to  the  educa- 
tion of  my  boys,  and  leave  my  other  affairs  entirely  to 
me — entirely!  Do  you  understand? " 

Weinhold  "stands  for  a  moment  rigid  and  deathly  pale, 
then  bows,  with  a  strained  smile,"  and  answers  "in  a  low 
voice,"  "Certainly,  of  course  I  understand.  I  have  seen 
this,  coming.  It  is  my  wish,  too."  And  he  goes  out. 

When  Mrs.  Dreissiger  remonstrates  with  her  husband 
for  his  rudeness,  he  retorts,  "Have  you  lost  your  senses, 
Rosa,  that  you're  taking  the  part  of  a  man  who  defends 
a  low,  blackguardly  libel  like  that  song?  " 


150  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

"But,  William,  he  didn't  defend  it." 

"Mr.  Kittelhaus,"  demands  Dreissiger,  "did  he  defend 
it  or  did  he  not?" 

"His  youth  must  be  his  excuse,"  replies  the  pastor 
evasively. 

And  Mrs.  Kittelhaus  exclaims,  "I  can't  understand  it. 
The  young  man  comes  of  such  a  good,  respectable  family. 
His  father  held  a  public  appointment  for  forty  years, 
without  a  breath  on  his  reputation.  His  mother  was  over- 
joyed at  his  getting  this  good  situation  here.  And  now — 
he  himself  shows  so  little  appreciation  of  it." 

That  is  all.  We  hear  almost  nothing  more  of  Weinhold 
during  the  remainder  of  the  play;  he  has  spoken  scarcely 
four  lines  of  dialogue;  and  yet  he  stands  out  sharply,  both 
on  his  own  account  and  by  means  of  the  effect  he  pro- 
duces upon  other  clearly  drawn  figures. 

If  one  is  interested  to  know  this  author's  methods  in 
full-length  portraiture,  let  him  study  the  acute  and  un- 
scrupulous Mrs.  Wolff,  of  "The  Beaver  Coat"  and  "The 
Conflagration."  In  these  two  plays  Herr  Hauptmann  has 
set  forth  every  conceivable  phase  of  this  cunning,  sarcastic, 
iron-willed  woman,  one  of  the  most  completely  individu- 
alized figures  in  the  whole  field  of  the  modern  stage. 

Progressive  Versus  Stationary  Characters 

Should  characters  in  drama  develop  or  remain  sta- 
tionary? Briefly,  that  must  depend  on  the  nature  of  the 
play.  Mr.  Edward  Sheldon's  heroine  in  "  The  High  Road," 
who  traverses  half  a  century  in  the  course  of  five  acts,  or 
Messrs.  Bennett  and  Knoblauch's  initial  figures  in  "Mile- 


DRAMATIS   PERSON2E  AND  LIFE  151 

stones/'  who  live  a  lifetime  in  three  acts,  might  reasonably 
be  expected  to  change.  Since  the  majority  of  plays 
depict  so  much  shorter  periods,  however,  character  evolu- 
tion is  usually  obviated.  To  the  playwright  the  individual 
is  valuable  only  for  the  two  hours  taken  out  of  his  life,  with 
due  allowance  for  the  effects  of  the  indicated  intervals. 

This  does  not  mean,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  dra- 
matist cares  nothing  for  his  people's  past  careers,  as  Mr. 
Brander  Matthews  would  have  us  believe.1  "Who  was 
Tartuffe,"  he  inquires,  "before  his  sinister  shadow  crossed 
the  threshold  of  Orgon's  happy  home?  What  misdeeds 
had  he  been  already  guilty  of  and  what  misadventures  had 
he  already  met?  Moliere  does  not  tal  us;  and  very  likely 
he  could  not  have  told  us.  Probably  he  would  have 
explained  that  it  did  not  matter,  since  Tartuffe  is  what  he 
is;  he  is  what  we  see  him;  we  have  only  to  look  at  him 
and  to  listen  to  him  to  know  all  we  need  to  know  about 
him.  .  .  .  We  find  the  melancholy  Jaques  in  the  Forest 
of  Arden,  moralizing  at  large  and  bandying  repartees  with 
a  chance  clown;  he  talks  and  we  know  him  at  once,  as  we 
know  a  man  we  have  met  many  times.  But  who  is  he? 
What  is  his  rank?  Where  does  he  come  from?  What 
brought  him  so  far  afield  and  so  deep  into  the  greenwood? 
Shakespeare  leaves  us  in  the  dark  as  to  all  these  things; 
and  perhaps  he  was  in  the  dark  himself." 

On  the  other  hand,  we  have  the  testimony  of  no  less  a 
master  than  Ibsen  himself — in  "Nachgelassene  Schriften" — 
that  he  lived  decades  with  his  characters  till  he  knew  them. 
When  comment  was  made  to  him  upon  the  name  of  Nora 

1  A  Study  of  the  Drama,  pages  156-157. 


1 52  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

in  "A  Doll's  House,"  he  replied,  "Oh,  her  full  name  was 
Leonora;  but  that  was  shortened  to  Nora  when  she  was 
quite  a  little  girl.  Of  course,  you  know  she  was  terribly 
spoiled  by  her  parents."  And  then  there  is  the  interesting 
anecdote  of  the  conversation  between  Ibsen  and  his 
fellow-dramatist,  Gunnar  Heiberg,  who  insisted  that 
Irene  in  "When  We  Dead  Awaken"  must  be  at  least 
forty  years  old,  whereas  her  creator  sternly  declared  her 
to  be  but  twenty-eight.  Next  day  Heiberg  received  the 
following  note: 

"Dear  Gunnar  Heiberg: 

You  were  right  and  I  was  wrong.    I  have  looked  up  my 
notes.    Irene  is  about  forty  years  old. 
Yours, 

Henrik  Ibsen." 

In  fact,  the  great  Scandinavian  in  almost  every  instance 
apparently  turned  his  theme  over  and  over  in  his  mind, 
slowly  working  out  the  psychology  of  his  characters  and 
never  recording  them  permanently  until  "he  had  them 
wholly  in  his  power  and  knew  them  down  to  the  last  fold 
of  their  souls."  Obviously  such  procedure  requires  an 
imaginative  acquaintance  with  the  past  history,  almost 
with  the  family  trees,  of  the  dramatis  persona. 

In  Monsieur  Andre  Picard's  "L'Ange  gardien" — to  cite  a 
play  already  referred  to  in  the  chapter  on  plot — we  are 
introduced  to  the  mysterious  Therese  Duvigneau,  a  rather 
plain  and  taciturn  widow  of  thirty,  who  at  first  impresses 
us — as  she  does  the  other  personages — as  being  distinctly 
unpleasant.  Little  by  little,  however,  as  the  action 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS  AND  LIFE  153 

progresses,  this  strange,  complex  creature  reveals  herself, 
not  as  the  cold,  repellent  misanthrope  she  first  appears, 
but — incredibly  enough — as  a  woman  at  bottom  capable 
of  ungovernable  emotional  outbursts,  and  instinct  with 
a  subtle  and  imperious  charm.  The  chief  part  of  this 
revelation  takes  place  in  the  course  of  a  rapid  and  tense 
scene  during  which  our  attitude  toward  this  character 
undergoes  a  complete  change,  and  we  pass  from  dislike 
to  a  sympathetic  comprehension. 

Individuals  and  Types  May  Balance 

Of  course,  the  inevitable  penalty  exacted  for  such  com- 
plexity in  the  portrayal  of  one  individual  is  forced  con- 
tentment with  mere  types  for  the  other  figures.  The 
dramatist  sacrifices  his  auxiliary  characters  to  the  pro- 
tagonist much  "as  the  father  of  a  family  who  would 
sacrifice  his  children  to  one  among  them.  His  play  tends 
to  be  only  a  monograph." 

"The  dramatist,"  says  Sir  Arthur  Wing  Pinero,  "is 
only  the  mouthpiece  of  his  characters,  plus,  of  course,  his 
knowledge  of  the  technique  of  the  theatre,  which  enables 
him  to  manoeuvre  them.  So  he  must  assume  an  imper- 
sonal attitude  toward  them  and  permit  them,  so  to  speak, 
to  develop  out  of  themselves."  This,  doubtless,  means  a 
development  not  during  the  course  of  the  play,  but  rather 
during  the  long  period — rarely  less  than  a  year  with 
Pinero — of  the  writing  of  the  play.  It  is  only  this  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  characters  as  individual  men  and 
women,  this  living  on  terms  of  complete  familiarity  with 


154  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

them  through  all  the  occurrences  commonplace  and 
extraordinary  that  go  to  make  up  a  lifetime,  that  can 
guarantee  absolute  logic  and  consistency — to  say  nothing 
of  freshness — of  plot,  and  that  can  result  in  the  rigid 
economy  of  materials  the  conditions  of  the  theatre  demand. 
Naturally,  it  is  the  leading  figures,  rather  than  the 
auxiliary  ones,  that  determine  the  action  of  the  drama. 
Generally  speaking,  character  plays  utilize  fewer  per- 
sonages than  do  story  plays.  This  is,  of  course,  because  it 
takes  time  to  portray  character: — the  method  must  be 
leisurely.  Of  late  years  compression  has  often  been 
carried  to  the  extreme.  Not  so  long  ago  a  prominent 
theatrical  manager  refused  to  read  farther  than  the  first 
page  of  a  manuscript  play  when  he  saw  that  its  cast 
numbered  only  five.  Within  a  few  weeks  "The  Climax," 
with  four  characters,  had  attained  great  popularity,  after 
"The  Easiest  Way,"  with  six,  had  already  demonstrated 
its  value.  In  the  latter  piece,  in  fact,  there  is  slight  reason 
why  the  optimistic  showman  and  the  negro  maid  should 
not  have  been  omitted:  neither  contributes  to  the  action 
or  seriously  bears  upon  the  significance  of  the  play.  Of 
course,  an  undue  sense  of  isolation  is  to  be  avoided,  but 
there  is  always  the  possibility  of  producing  the  illusion  of 
off-stage  life  by  means  of  familiar  sounds  and  passing 
figures.  As  a  rule,  the  would-be  playwright  will  be  con- 
sulting his  own  best  interests — so  far  as  possible  produc- 
tion of  his  work  is  concerned — by  avoiding  a  superfluity 
of  parts  as  of  other  expense-making  elements.  The  four- 
act  play  with  only  three  characters  in  it,  on  the  other 
hand,  not  unreasonably  excites  prejudice.  So,  perhaps, 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS  AND  LITE  155 

such  a  piece,  if  it  is  very,  very  good,  had  better  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  manager  without  a  preliminary  list  of  the 
dramatis  personal 

Generally  speaking,  types  alone  are  usually  sufficient 
for  the  purposes  of  story  plays,  whereas  character  plays 
require  individualized  figures.  Although  to  display  freshly 
drawn  personages  in  hackneyed  situations  is  somewhat 
like  putting  new  wine  into  old  bottles — and  new  wine  in 
new  bottles  is  certainly  best — nevertheless  stereotyped 
figures  are  taboo  in  the  successful  drama  even  more  than 
are  trite  incidents.  Furthermore,  as  a  rule,  the  charac- 
ters, which  rarely  develop  in  the  play  itself,  should  first 
have  undergone  a  complete  evolution  in  the  mind  of  their 
creator.  And  in  most  instances  the  fewer  the  essential 
figures,  the  better  the  play  will  be. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  From  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays — "Hamlet"  sug- 
gested— make  a  list  of  the  characters  actually  essential 
to  the  plot. 

2.  Why  are  they  essential  while  others  are  not? 

3.  Do  modern  plays  employ  characters  not  essential  to 
the  plot?    If  so,  name  an  instance  and  show  briefly  why. 

4.  What  sort  of  names  do  you  find  given  to  characters 
in  plays  of  today? 

5.  Are  the  symbolic  names,  like  Colonel  Bully  and 
Molly  Millions,  in  vogue  in  the  eighteenth  and  early  nine- 
teenth centuries,  in  good  taste  today? 

6.  Take  one  of  your  own  plots,  used  in  a  previous 


156  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

assignment,  and  make  a  list  of  the  characters,  with  out- 
lines of  their  relations  each  to  the  other. 

7.  Criticise  the  characterization  in  any  recent  play 
from  the  standpoint  of  reality  or  of  symbolism,  as  the 
case  may  require. 

8.  What  do  you  understand  by  an  individualized  char- 
acter and  a  typical  character?    Cite  examples. 

9.  Which  sort  do  you  find  most  common  in  present- 
day  plays?     Cite  examples. 

10.  Give  the  full  dialogue  of  so  much  of  an  original 
scene   as   may   be   necessary   to   delineate   a   character 
indirectly,  in  the  manner  of  Hauptmann,  page  148. 

11.  In  brief  outline  only,  give  the  biographical  and 
personal  details  of  a  character,  real  or  imaginary,  who  is 
individual  enough  to  be  the  big  figure  in  a  play. 

12.  In  your  own  way,  show  how  you  might  make  him 
live  on  the  stage. 

13.  In  psychological  character  drawing  we  are  taken 
into  a  human  soul  and  enabled  to  see  how  it  works  in 
given  circumstances.     Write  a  dialogue  scene  psycho- 
logically showing  a  woman  struggling  with  the  problem  of 
whether  she  will  sacrifice  the  interests  of  her  second 
husband  in  order  to  further  the  interests  of  her  son  by  a 
former  marriage. 

14.  Outline  the  same  character  before  and  after  the 
great  crisis  in  his  life  which  has  involved  marked  char- 
acter change. 

15.  In  the  case  of  this  husband,  would  you  show  his 
character  directly  or  indirectly? 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS  AND  LIFE  157 

1 6.  Clip  five  items  from  magazines  or  newspapers  con- 
taining material  for  dramatic  characterization. 

17.  For  practice,  take  all  the  central  characters  in  these 
five  accounts  and  weave  them  together  into  a  plot.    What 
were  your  chief  difficulties? 

1 8.  Make  a  list  of  the  sources  for  character  study  open 
to  you  personally. 

19.  Should  characters  be  modified,  or  even  combined 
with  others,  for  stage  use?    Give  reasons. 

20.  Draft  a  plot  around  "  The  Man  from  Ada,"  page  138, 
taking  care  to  avoid  any  similarity  to  Mr.  Biggers's  play, 
"Inside  the  Lines." 

21.  Cite  any  instance  you  can  of  plays  in  which  char- 
acterization was  badly  done  because  of  imperfect  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject. 

22.  Briefly  describe  six  characters  all  of  whom  might 
well  appear  in  the  same  play.     Do  not  overlook  the 
principle  of  contrast. 

23.  Invent  two   dramatic   situations  which  result  in 
character  changes  in  the  characters.    Note  the  distinction 
between  "character"  and  "characters." 

24.  Invent  two  dramatic  situations  which  result  from 
changes  in  character  of  the  characters. 

25.  Describe  the  actions  of  five  comedy  characters. 

NOTE:  Invention  assignments  of  this  sort  should  be 
multiplied  indefinitely.  Special  emphasis  should  be  laid 
upon  small  self-revealing  actions  and  remarks  by  the  dram- 
atis persona;  and  also  upon  remarks  by  one  character 
about  another  which  connote  more  than  they  say. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


PLOT-AND-CHARACTER   HARMONY 

The  plea  that  otherwise  the  plot  would  have  been  ruined,  is 
ridiculous;  such  a  plot  should  not  in  the  first  instance  be  con- 
structed.— ARISTOTLE,  Poetics. 

Though  the  subject  of  the  imitation,  who  suggested  the  type, 
be  inconsistent,  still  he  must  be  consistently  inconsistent. — Ibid. 

It  may  be  observed,  too,  that  although  the  representation  of 
no  human  character  should  be  quarrelled  with  for  its  inconsist- 
ency, we  yet  require  that  the  inconsistencies  be  not  absolute 
antagonisms  to  the  extent  of  neutralization;  they  may  be  per- 
mitted to  be  oils  and  waters,  but  they  must  not  be  alkalies  and 
acids.  When  in  the  course  of  the  denouement,  the  usurer  bursts 
forth  into  an  eloquence  virtue-inspired,  we  cannot  sympathize 
very  heartily  in  his  fine  speeches,  since  they  proceed  from  the 
mouth  of  the  selfsame  egotist  who,  urged  by  a  disgusting  vanity, 
uttered  so  many  sotticisms  ...  in  the  earlier  passages  of  the 
play. — EDGAR  ALLAN  POE,  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Willis,  and  the 
Drama. 

The  fundamental  problem  of  the  dramatist,  as  has 
been  said,  is  the  problem  of  plot-and-character  harmony — 
which,  being  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms,  amounts  merely 
to  a  strict  observance  of  natural  logic.  Observation  may 
be  most  just  and  acute,  and  as  a  result  men  and  women  in 
plays  may  be  exhibited  with  all  manner  of  skill  in  con- 
trast and  grouping,  as  well  as  with  sympathetic  individual 
portraiture;  and  yet,  if  what  they  are  fails  to  accord  with 
what  they  do,  they  most  likely  amount  to  no  more  than 


PLOT-AND-CHARACTER   HARMONY  I  $9 

wasted  effort.  In  spite  of  this  fact,  however,  a  common 
defect  in  drama  is  the  tendency  to  "plot-ridden"  per- 
sonages, who,  for  the  sake  of  the  fable,  are  forever  belying 
their  own  selves. 

To  repeat,  in  the  best  serious  plays  everything  of 
importance  occurs  as  the  result  of  an  obvious  and  rea- 
sonable motive.  We  are  never  content  to  see  a  bad  man 
do  good  deeds,  or  a  good  man  bad  ones;  a  wise  man  work 
stupidity,  or  a  stupid  man  wisdom — merely  that  the 
story  may  easily  advance.  Such  contradictions  are 
always  occurring  in  everyday  life,  but  people  act  so  for 
reasons  of  their  own  which  are  rarely  apparent.  In  the 
play,  however,  we  must  be  more  than  merely  natural — 
probability  is  a  sine  qua  non. 

Lack  of  Harmony  Between  Plot  and  Character 

In  "The  Big  Idea,"  for  instance,  we  are  actually  asked 
to  believe  that  a  New  York  theatrical  producer  would  pay 
an  unknown  playwright  twenty-two  thousand  dollars  for 
an  untried  play.  If  the  sum  named  had  been  a  reason- 
able one — say  five  hundred  dollars  at  the  utmost — then 
the  postulate  upon  which  the  extravaganza  hangs — 
that  the  banker  father  cannot  raise  so  much  money  to 
avoid  ruin — would  have  fallen  to  pieces.  In  "A  Pah-  of 
Silk  Stockings,"  we  must  do  the  best  we  can  to  harmonize 
with'  the  eccentric  but  straightforward  character  of  Sam 
Thornhill  the  fact  that,  when  piqued  at  his  wife's  prefer- 
ence in  motors,  he  ostentatiously  took  up  with  a  disrepu- 
table woman  just  to  show  that  he  was  "a  bit  knocked." 


l6o  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

Doubtless  this  difficulty  is  largely  a  matter  of  opinion; 
certainly  it  does  not  suffice  to  diminish  the  charm  of  the 
bright  little  comedy. 

One  notes  the  obvious  fact  that  when  these  credulity- 
straining  postulates  deal  with  matters  antecedent  to  the 
play  itself — as  Sarcey  and  others  have  pointed  out — the 
spectator  is  usually  willing  to  swallow  the  whole  affair 
without  much  protest,  providing  that,  these  fundamentals 
being  granted,  the  characters  thereafter  seem  probable 
and  consistent.  In  other  words,  resentment  is  likely  to 
be  aroused  only  when  during  the  progress  of  the  piece  the 
characters  are  made  to  do  what  we  feel  they — being  what 
they  are — could  not  do,  and  all  for  the  mere  sake  of 
furthering  the  advancement  of  the  plot.  Thus  the  char- 
acter of  the  hero  in  Mr.  Hubert  Henry  Davies's  "Outcast" 
is  belittled  by  his  obstinate  clinging  to  the  inferior  creature, 
who  once  heartlessly  threw  him  over  for  a  rich  old  suitor, 
in  the  face  of  the  vastly  more  desirable  love  and  per- 
sonality of  the  girl  his  kindness  has  helped  to  develop  into 
a  woman  of  the  strongest  charm.  In  fact,  the  hero  of  this 
drama,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  heroine,  is  throughout  a 
vague,  indefinite  figure.  And  the  chief  reason  for  this 
state  of  affairs  is  that  Mr.  Davies  has  not  enough  plot  for 
a  full  evening's  play.  Certainly,  if  Geoffrey  had  been  a 
convincing  human  being,  in  all  the  circumstances,  the 
piece  would  have  ended  one  act  earlier  than  it  did.  Yet, 
whatever  its  deficiencies,  "Outcast,"  at  least  for  the  char- 
acter study  of  its  heroine,  is  most  moving  and  effective. 

The  unconvincing  is  always  turning  up.  In  Mr.  B. 
Macdonald  Hastings's  arbitrary  and  conventional  play 


PLOT-AND-CHARACTER  HARMONY  l6l 

"That  Sort,"  reminiscent  as  it  is  of  "East  Lynne,"  "Miss 
Moulton,"  "Lady  Windermere's  Fan,"  "The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray,"  and  even  others,  the  ultimate  self- 
sacrifice  of  Diana  Laska  is  wholly  unacceptable.  In  Mr. 
Henry  Arthur  Jones's  "Mary  Goes  First,"  a  political 
leader,  among  other  personages,  is  portrayed  as  of  an 
incredible  stupidity  merely  in  order  that  the  cleverness  of 
the  heroine  may  be  emphasized  by  contrast. 

It  should  be  understood  that,  in  such  criticism  of  specific 
defects  as  is  offered  here — and  elsewhere  in  this  book — 
sweeping  condemnation  of  the  plays  mentioned  is  neither 
always  nor  often  intended.  Practically  every  drama 
referred  to  could  be  cited  as  exemplifying  also  innum- 
erable excellences  of  technique  and  matter.  Many  of 
these  pieces  have  won  a  deserved  popularity:  the  point 
of  the  criticism  is  simply  that  they  might  have  been  even 
better.  There  are,  of  course,  plays  almost  totally  devoid 
of  merit,  but  they  have  been  generally  so  short-lived  and 
so  little  known  as  to  be  useless  for  purposes  of  illustration. 

In  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas's  "Arizona"  a  sensible  army 
officer,  having  been  told  that  his  former  friend,  who  is 
accused  of  attempted  murder,  has,  at  the  noise  of  an 
unexpected  shot,  merely  fired  his  pistol  mechanically  into 
the  floor,  does  not,  in  seeking  evidence,  even  think  of 
probing  there  for  the  bullet  that  fits  the  prisoner's  weapon. 
In  Mr.  James  Forbes's  play,  "The  Traveling  Salesman," 
when  a  question  of  vital  importance  arises,  a  supposedly 
intelligent  heroine  is  made  to  put  implicit  confidence  in 
the  obvious  villain,  refusing  to  believe  the  manifestly 
honest  hero.  In  "Nobody's  Daughter,"  the  parents  of  an 


l62  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

illegitimate  child,  though  young,  prosperous,  and  in  love, 
do  not  marry — for  no  apparent  reason  except  that  the 
heroine  would  then  be  somebody's  daughter.  In  Mr. 
Arnold  Bennett's  "The  Great  Adventure,"  an  artist  with 
the  fame  and  skill  of  a  Titian  is  made  to  give  up  his  art 
as  well  as  his  name  and  state  of  life  for  no  credible  reason 
other  than  the  purposes  of  a  highly  improbable  plot. 

These  are  all  in  a  sense  instances  of  the  "plot-ridden" 
character  in  the  drama:  in  each  case  somebody  is  forced 
by  the  exigencies  of  the  fable  to  do  what  he  could  not 
possibly  have  done  in  real  life  and  so  to  incite  the  imme- 
diate resentment  of  the  thoughtful  spectator,  because,  in 
asking  him  to  believe  the  unbelievable,  the  playwright 
casts  an  inferential  slur  on  the  playgoer's  intelligence. 
Often  enough,  too,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  most  conven- 
tional melodrama  that  these  distressing  compromises  occur. 

More  frequently  still,  as  has  previously  been  noted,  the 
dramatic  personage  is  made  to  barter  his  birthright  of 
actuality  for  that  most  specious  mess  of  pottage,  the 
"happy  ending."  For  example,  the  American  adaptor 
of  Miss  Elizabeth  Baker's  "Chains,"  made  the  monot- 
ony-mad clerk,  about  to  escape  from  the  deadening 
bondage,  hail  with  joy  that  news  of  his  prospective 
paternity  which  in  the  original  was  the  death-blow  to  his 
last  hopes  of  relief.  Obviously  this  tampering  merely 
perverted  not  only  the  character  of  Richard  Wilson,  but 
also  the  entire  purpose  of  the  play. 

A  few  years  ago,  on  the  other  hand,  when  Mr.  Joseph 
Medill  Patterson's  play,  "The  Fourth  Estate,"  was  first 
produced,  it  ended  with  the  suicide  of  the  hero,  an  idealistic 


PLOT-AND-CHARACTER  HARMONY  163 

young  journalist  who  had  been  baffled  at  every  turn  in  his 
struggle  to  emancipate  the  press.  Though  thus  invested 
with  a  specious  air  of  tragedy,  neither  story  nor  hero  was 
worthy  of  the  dignity  of  death.  Purely  melodramatic,  the 
termination  was  entirely  arbitrary.  For  its  probability  it 
depended  chiefly  upon  the  exact  interpretation  of  the 
protagonist's  character.  If  he  was  a  half-mad  fanatic  or 
an  overwrought  neurotic,  suicide  might  be  expected  of 
him.  But  he  was  hardly  either.  As  a  result,  when  an 
alternative  "happy  ending"  was  substituted,  wherein  the 
hero  accepted  temporary  defeat,  set  his  jaw,  and  resolved 
on  eventual  victory,  the  play  had  not  suffered  in  effec- 
tiveness. 

But  all  melodrama  is  not  capable  of  similar  adjustment. 
In  the  case  of  Monsieur  Henri  Bernstein's  "Israel,"  the 
American  version  was  made  to  accord  with  the  alleged 
national  requirement  by  means  of  a  peculiarly  atrocious 
violation  of  the  sense  and  spirit  of  the  play.  The  young 
hero,  who  has  been  an  ardent  Jew-baiter,  has  just  learned 
that  the  Hebrew  he  has  particularly  assailed  is  his  own 
father.  In  the  original  version  this  intelligence  suddenly 
thrust  upon  him  drives  the  protagonist  to  suicide  as  the 
only  possible  relief  from  the  terrific  race-conflict  that 
wages  within  him.  For  American  gratification,  in  the 
last  act  there  was  evoked  practically  from  nowhere  a 
young  woman  who  considerately  married  the  hero  to  save 
his  life.  Even  in  melodrama  strict  logic  of  denouement 
is  more  to  be  desired  than  an  arbitrary  conclusion  which 
strains  probability  to  the  breaking  point  and  destroys 
character  consistency. 


164  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Of  late  years  it  has  been  fairly  well  demonstrated  that 
the  demand  for  conventional  endings  is  not  inevitable. 
Laura  Murdock's  tragic  relapse  into  the  "easiest  way"  is  a 
case  in  point.  Farce  and  melodrama,  being  chiefly 
dependent  upon  plot,  require  a  definite  rounding  up  of 
loose  ends.  And  surely  we  may  say,  in  general,  that 
serious  comedy  should  at  least  be  finished  and  not  simply 
stopped.  Of  course,  if  it  be  mere  photography,  it  will  man- 
age to  subsist  without  much  reference  to  the  rules  of  art. 

Plot-and-character  harmony,  let  it  be  repeated,  is  both 
the  chief  problem  of  the  dramatist  and  the  first  essential 
of  a  good  play.  Even  in  sheer  melodrama,  if  it  is  to  be 
worth  while,  the  personages  must  not  for  the  sake  of  the 
story  be  forced  into  glaring  inconsistency.  And  the 
popular  demand  for  the  "happy  ending"  is  decidedly 
not  to  be  regarded  as  a  legitimate  excuse  for  last-act 
insults  to  the  spectators'  common  sense. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Suggest  improved  harmony  between  character  and 
plot  in  any  two  of  the  cases  criticised  with  which  you  are 
familiar. 

2.  In  your  cpinion,  in  any  of  the  successful  plays 
cited,  which   show  weakness   in  plot-and-character  har- 
mony, would  a  correction  of  these  defects  have  resulted  in 
greater  success? 

3.  Examine  two  of  your  previously  constructed  plots 
to  see  if  you  have  offended  in  character  probability. 
Frankly  state  your  view. 


PLOT-AND-CHARACTER  HARMONY  165 

4.  If  you  have  found  any  such  defect,  say  how  you 
propose  to  correct  it. 

5.  In  your  observation,  do  audiences  easily  discover 
defective  harmony  between  plot  and  character,  or  are 
they  usually  blindly  complacent?    Give  examples,  if  pos- 
sible. 

6.  How  have  these  matters  previously  affected  you? 

7.  From  plays  you  have  read  or  seen  cite  other  instances 
of  a  lack  in  plot-and-character  harmony. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE   DIALOGUE 

Every  phrase,  with  Dumas,  hits  the  mark;  as  there  is  not  in 
his  plays  an  idle  word,  there  is  likewise  none  that  is  lost.  His 
language  is  all  muscles  and  nerves;  it  is  action.  And  at  the  same 
time  it  gives  to  the  idea  a  strict  and  decisive  form,  it  sculptures 
it.  If  it  often  lacks  literary  purity  and  grammatical  correctness, 
it  has  always  dramatic  relief. — GEORGES  PELLISSIER,  Le  Mouve- 
ment  Litteraire  au  XIX6  Siecle. 

I  do  not  know  whether  one  could  find  a  single  mot  [detachable 
witticism]  in  Moliere.  ...  In  revenge,  the  mots  of  passion, 
of  character,  of  situation  sparkle  on  every  hand.  .  .  .  You  will 
find  not  a  single  thing  that  is  amusing  because  the  person  who 
utters  it  wishes  to  be  amusing.  He  is  so,  without  knowing  it, 
by  the  sole  fact  of  the  situation  in  which  he  finds  himself  and  of 
the  character  which  the  author  has  given  him. — FRANCISQUE 
SARCEY,  Le  Mot  et  la  Chose. 

After  action,  pantomime  and  dialogue  are  the  chief 
means  by  which  the  personages  in  a  drama  reveal  them- 
selves and  tell  the  story  in  which  they  are  involved. 

Pantomime 

Pantomime  I  name  first  because,  from  the  dramatic 
standpoint,  it  is  the  more  effective  agency.  Quantita- 
tively, it  is  by  its  nature  limited.  Gesture,  attitude,  and 
play  of  countenance  aside,  a  hundred  things  are  usually 
said  for  every  one  that  is  done.  Yet,  in  a  broad  sense, 
as  has  often  been  averred,  a  good  play  should  be  reducible 


THE  DIALOGUE  167 

in  its  essentials  to  pantomime:  otherwise  it  is  likely  to 
prove  upon  analysis  to  be  largely  composed  of  non-dra- 
matic conversation. 

The  pantomime  element  lies  chiefly,  of  course,  in  the 
hands  of  the  player  rather  than  of  the  playwright.  The 
author,  however,  must  have  full  knowledge  of  all  the 
feasible  expedients  of  dumb  show  that  may  best  be 
utilized  in  the  expression  of  his  story  and  characters,  and 
he  must  provide  for  them  in  advance,  if  merely  to  avoid 
their  duplication  in  the  dialogue.  Wherever  pantomime 
may  be  employed,  repetitive  dialogue  is  not  only  uneco- 
nomical, it  is  positively  devitalizing.  What  can  be  shown 
by  gesture,  movement,  facial  expression,  significant  pause, 
should  rarely  also  be  said  in  words.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  must  be  remembered  that  pantomime  has  its  limita- 
tions,— that,  after  all,  it  is  not  possible  to  "  indicate  by 
the  wriggling  of  the  left  shoulder  that  one's  paternal 
grandfather  was  born  in  Shropshire." 

Kinds  of  Dialogue 

Dialogue  in  the  English  drama  may  usually  be  classed  as 
poetic,  rhetorical,  or  realistic. 

The  poetic  is  generally  in  the  form  of  blank  verse.  It 
belongs  to  a  convention  that  is  now  rarely  employed — a 
form  of  the  ancient  assumption  that  the  heroic  personages 
of  tragedy  in  particular  speak  an  exalted  and  ornate 
language  not  common  to  ordinary  mortals.  Similarly  the 
characters  in  grand  opera,  as  everybody  knows,  discourse 
in  song. 


1 68  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

Rhetorical  dialogue  partakes  of  the  same  heightened 
nature  as  the  poetical,  though  it  is  usually  mere  orna- 
mented and  elaborately  wrought  prose.  At  the  present 
time  neither  poetic  nor  rhetorical  dialogue  is  in  much 
demand  in  the  theatre.  Dramatists  like  Rostand  and 
Hauptmann  and  Stephen  Phillips  still  employ  verse; 
others,  like  Mr.  Percy  Mackaye  in  several  of  his  plays, 
choose  for  their  medium  a  decorated  and  highly  polished 
prose;  but  the  large  majority  of  playwrights  assiduously 
cultivate  realism  in  the  speech  of  their  characters. 

There  are  occasional  hybrid  efforts  to  combine  the 
realistic  content  with  the  poetic  form,  to  put  everyday 
speech  into  blank  verse,  or  to  mingle  the  realistic  and  the 
symbolical  in  iambic  pentameters.  Mr.  Witter  Bynner's 
little  tragedy,  "Tiger,"  is  an  example  of  the  former; 
Mr.  Israel  Zangwill's  "The  War  God,"  of  the  latter 
endeavor.  In  both  these  plays,  for  the  most  part, 
ordinary,  unheightened  speech  is  cut  into  five-foot  lengths. 
The  presence  of  the  symbolical  element  in  "The  War 
God"  perhaps  justifies  the  expedient.  But — to  me — the 
gutter-speech  of  the  vile  creatures  in  "Tiger"  when  put 
into  blank  verse  produces  the  effect  of  a  horrible  bur- 
lesque and  detracts  from  the  forcefulness  of  the  narrative. 
For  the  sake  of  the  meter,  moreover,  the  characters  are 
made  to  use  interchangeably  complete  forms  or  contrac- 
tions— "I'll,  I  will;  cannot,  can't,"  and  the  like — without 
regard  to  the  probabilities,  and  so  in  opposition  to  the 
very  effect  of  realism  desired. 

Generally  speaking,  model  realistic  dialogue  is  that  of 
which  the  playgoer  can  say  that  it  sounds  as  if  it  were 


THE   DIALOGUE  1 69 

being  spoken  for  the  first  time,  had  not  been  written,  and 
could  not,  on  another  occasion,  be  exactly  repeated.  Of 
course,  there  are  plays  making  some  pretense  to  lifelikeness 
that  employ  a  dialogue  that  is  frankly  artificial,  crowded 
with  clever  conceits  and  generally  reflecting  the  tradition 
of  euphuism  that  has  clung  to  the  English  drama  for  cen- 
turies. "Half  the  young  ladies  in  London  spend  their 
evenings  making  their  fathers  take  them  to  plays  that  are 
not  fit  for  elderly  people  to  see,"  is  a  typical  Shavian 
wrong-side-out  witticism  from  "Fanny's  First  Play." 
But,  amusing  though  it  may  be,  it  is  not  nearly  so  telling 
as  Dora's  genially  impudent  retort  to  old  Gilbey's  heart- 
broken cry,  "My  son  in  gaol!"  "Oh,  cheer  up,  old  dear," 
she  says,  "it  won't  hurt  him:  look  at  me  after  fourteen 
days  of  it:  I'm  all  the  better  for  being  kept  a  bit  quiet. 
You  mustn't  let  it  prey  on  your  mind."  Or  compare 
Duvallet's  elaborate,  "You  have  made  an  end  of  the 
despotism  of  the  parent;  the  family  council  is  unknown 
to  you;  everywhere  in  this  island  one  can  enjoy  the  soul- 
liberating  spectacle  of  men  quarreling  with  their  brothers, 
defying  their  fathers,  refusing  to  speak  to  their  mothers" 
— with  this  other  delicious  bit: 

Mrs.  Gilbey.  Bobby  must  have  looked  funny  in  your 
hat.  Why  did  you  change  hats  with  him? 

Dora.    I  don't  know.    One  does,  you  know. 

Mrs.  Gilbey.  I  never  did.  The  things  people  do!  I 
can't  understand  them.  Bobby  never  told  me  he  was 
keeping  company  with  you.  His  own  mother! 

The   latter   passage   obviously   appeals   because   of   its 


170  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

naturalness;  it  does  not  impress  upon  you  the  fact  that  it 
has  been  thought  up  in  advance. 

The  Principles  of  Dialogue 

Every  line  of  dialogue,  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas  tells  us, 
should  either  reveal  character,  advance  the  story,  or  get  a 
laugh.  As  for  the  detachable  witticism,  it  is  justifiable  in 
the  realistic  drama  to  the  extent  that  it  is  probable.  A 
clever  man  will  say  clever  things;  a  dull  man  will  not. 
And  even  the  wit  will  not  always  be  at  his  best — though 
it  is  no  deadly  sin  if,  on  the  stage,  he  is. 

Any  speech  that  does  not  harmonize  with  the  mood  or 
tone  of  the  scene  or  with  the  general  atmosphere  is,  of 
course,  strictly  out  of  place.  Hamlet  has  said  his  say 
about  certain  villainous  practices  that  make  the  judicious 
grieve,  and  it  applies  as  thoroughly  to  the  tasteless  play- 
wright as  to  the  tasteless  clown.  In  farce  and  fantastic 
plays  wit  per  se  will  be  much  more  welcome  than  in  serious 
drama.  Indeed,  keynote  and  tone  may  sometimes  be 
struck  and  maintained  to  the  best  advantage  by  means  of 
detachable  witticisms.  All  the  rest  of  the  dialogue,  how- 
ever, should  be  composed  of  that  which  reveals  character 
or  advances  plot  or  does  both. 

The  principles  that  chiefly  apply  to  satisfactory  dra- 
matic dialogue  are  selection,  or  economy,  and  emphasis. 
The  characters  should  speak  in  what  appears  to  be  their 
natural  everyday  language,  and  yet  they  must  avoid  the 
repetition  and  digression  of  ordinary  conversation,  and 
what  they  say  must  be  carefully  arranged  with  a  view  to 
forceful  effect.  Above  all,  the  dialogue  must  never  be 


THE  DIALOGUE  1 71 

allowed  to  get  in  the  way  of  either  plot  or  characteriza- 
tion, lest  one  or  the  other  trip  over  it. 

An  inevitable  concomitant  of  naturalism  has  been  the 
introduction  of  inconsequent  verbosity  on  the  stage.  Com- 
pare the  leisurely  irrelevancies  of  a  play,  say  by  Mr. 
Granville  Barker,  with  the  crisp,  abbreviated,  fragmentary 
speech  of  the  characters  in,  say  Mr.  Augustus  Thomas's 
play,  "As  a  Man  Thinks."  In  the  one  case  you  find 
interminable  disquisitions,  which  impede  action  and  are 
at  best  only  slightly  revelatory  of  character — sometimes 
not  at  all.  In  the  latter  case  you  are  more  likely  to  come 
across  a  page  like  this: 

VEDAH 
I  don't  want  Mr.  Burrill  and  Mr.  De  Lota  to  meet. 

SEELIG 
Not  meet—? 

VEDAH 
Just  yet. 

SEELIG 
Why  not? 

VEDAH 

I  haven't  told  anybody  of  my  engagement  to  Mr. 
De  Lota. 

SEELIG 

Well? 

VEDAH 
Well — he  carries  himself  so — so — 

SEELIG 
Proudly? 


172  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

VEDAH 

So  much  like  a  proprietor  that  it's  hard  to  explain  to 
others — strangers  especially. 

SEELIG 
By  "strangers  especially"  you  mean  Mr.  Burrill? 

VEDAH 
Yes. 

SEELIG 
Is  Mr.  Burrill's  opinion  important? 

VEDAH 
His  refinement  is  important. 

SEELIG 
Refinement? 

VEDAH 

Yes — the  quality  that  you  admire  in  men — the  quality 
that  Mr.  De  Lota  sometimes  lacks. 

Here,  obviously  enough,  we  are  getting  swift  exposition, 
story,  and  character — all  with  the  least  possible  expendi- 
ture of  language. 

The  amateur  playwright  will  find  that,  in  first  drafts  at 
least,  superfluous  words,  speeches,  even  scenes,  will  creep 
in  with  an  amazing  facility.  His  only  defense  is  eternal 
vigilance  coupled  with  a  tireless  blue  pencil.  I  fancy  the 
original  page  of  the  dialogue  just  quoted  was  considera- 
bly more  elaborate.  But  the  useless  has  been  rigidly 
eliminated,  with  a  distinct  gain,  not  only  in  speed  and 
effectiveness,  but  also  in  the  realistic  approximation  of  life. 

As  for  emphasis,  the  dramatic  line,  it  has  been  said, 


THE  DIALOGUE  173 

should  be  like  an  arrow — feathered  at  one  end  and  barbed 
at  the  other.  It  is  hiding  one's  light  under  a  bushel  to 
conceal  the  point  in  the  unemphatic  middle  of  a  sentence, 
no  matter  if  that  be  the  habitual  practice  of  the  average 
conversationalist  in  real  life. 

Things  Taboo 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  well  to  avoid  the  needless 
repetition  by  the  second  speaker  of  the  emphatic  word 
last  uttered  by  the  first.  Thus: 

JOHN 
Don't  you  remember  about  to-morrow? 

MARY 
To-morrow? 

JOHN 
To-morrow  is  my  birthday. 

MARY 
Your  birthday? 

Necessarily  this  makes  for  monotony  and,  if  continued  long 
enough,  for  madness. 

Equally  reprehensible  is  the  use  of  long  and  involved 
sentences,  where  short  staccato  abbreviations  and  frag- 
mentary phrases  are  indicated  by  both  the  characters  and 
the  situation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  very  few  of  us  speak 
much  in  full-rounded  sentences:  a  word  or  a  phrase  does 
ample  duty,  and  what  is  suggested  suffices  without  being 
actually  said.  "  Create  characters  that  are  human  beings," 
was  Clyde  Fitch's  formula  for  success  in  the  drama; 


174  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

"place  them  in  situations  that  are  reflections  of  life  itself; 
make  them  act — and,  above  all  things,  have  them  talk 
like  human  beings." 

The  soliloquy,  the  monologue,  the  "aside,"  the  "apart," 
as  we  are  so  often  reminded,  are  practically  taboo  on  the 
stage  of  to-day.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  spend  time  in  a 
discussion  of  the  reasons  and  justification  for  their  banish- 
ment. The  would-be  playwright  should  simply  avoid 
them.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  view  of  our  universal  lean- 
ings toward  strict  realism,  he  would  do  well  also  to  discard 
certain  related  devices  which,  though  still  in  fashion,  are 
essentially  unnatural.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  dialogue 
carried  on  "down  stage"  by  two  characters,  which  the 
audience  can  distinctly  hear,  but  which  is  supposed  to  be 
inaudible  to  the  other  actors  on  the  scene.  Cases  in  point 
are  the  restaurant  scenes  in  "The  Phantom  Rival"  and 
"Life."  Similarly,  the  pantomime  conversation  indulged 
in  "up  stage"  and  letters  read  aloud  purely  for  the 
benefit  of  the  audience  are  artifices  which  the  ultra-realistic 
might  reasonably  regard  with  contempt.  Occasionally 
some  of  these  conventions  actually  lead  to  a  deplorable 
absurdity,  as  in  the  case  already  cited  of  "La  Samari- 
taine."  1 

Connotation  in  Dialogue 

Naturally,  the  best  dramatic  dialogue  of  all  is  that  which 
is  not  merely  denotative  but  also  connotative — that  which 
implies  and  suggests  a  freightage  of  emotional  significance 
it  could  not  possibly  carry  in  actual  expression.  For  ex- 

1  See  page  127. 


THE  DIALOGUE  175 

ample,  in  "UAnge  gardien"  the  audience  as  well  as  several 
of  the  characters  are  eager  to  ascertain  who  it  was  that 
for  five  seconds  turned  on  the  electric  switch  beside  the 
outer  door  and  so  discovered  Madame  Trelart  tete-d-t$te 
with  her  lover,  Georges  Charmier.  At  length,  in  the 
presence  of  Monsieur  Trelart,  when  direct  speech  would 
be  out  of  the  question,  Therese  Duvigneau,  Madame's 
self-constituted  guardian  angel,  remarks — in  reply  to 
another's  platitude,  "So  many  things  can  happen  in 
half  an  hour," — "  Even  in  half  a  second.  The  instant  of  a 
flash  of  lightning  is  long  enough  to  change  a  destiny." 

"Very  true,"  observes  someone. 

"And  very  banal,"  adds  Therese  with  a  smile. 

Georges  Charmier  watches  her  narrowly  as  he  suggests, 
"Banalities  sometimes  have  a  very  specific  meaning." 

"That,"  replies  Therese,  sustaining  his  gaze,  "which 
one  wishes  to  give  them." 

And  a  moment  later  she  casually  remarks  to  Georges, 
apropos  of  his  quarters,  which  are  under  discussion,  "You 
don't  even  have  electricity  here!"  adding,  "Though  I'm 
quite  sure  you  have  had  plenty  of  it!" 

In  the  fourth  act  of  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac,"  after 
Roxane  has  arrived  at  the  camp  with  her  carriage-load  of 
provisions,  the  famished  cadets  of  Gascony,  who  have  been 
stuffing  themselves,  observe  the  approach  of  the  unpopular 
Comte  de  Guiche.  Quickly  hiding  victuals  and  drink, 
they  proceed  to  make  merry  at  his  expense.  He  has  just 
signalled  for  an  attack  of  the  enemy,  which  is  to  be  directed 
at  their  position,  and  he  announces  that  he  has  had  a 
cannon  brought  up  for  their  use  in  case  of  need. 


176  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

"As  you  are  not  accustomed  to  cannon,"  he  adds  dis- 
dainfully, "beware  of  the  recoil." 

"Pfft!"  sneers  a  cadet.    "Gascon  cannon  never  recoil." 

"You're  tipsy,"  says  Guiche  in  surprise.  "But  what 
with?" 

"The  smell  of  powder!"  is  the  proud  reply. 

Earlier  in  the  play,  it  will  be  recalled,  the  Comte,  angered 
at  Cyrano's  defiance,  demands,  "Have  you  read  'Don 
Quixote?'  " 

"I  have,"  replies  Bergerac,  "and  I  take  off  my  hat  to 
him." 

"Meditate,  then,  upon  the  episode  of  the  windmills," 
says  Guiche,  going;  "for  when  a  man  attacks  them,  it 
often  happens  that  the  sweep  of  their  great  wings  lands 
him  in  the  mud." 

"Or  else,"  retorts  Cyrano,  "in  the  stars!" 

In  "Within  the  Law"  Mary  Turner  marries  Richard 
Gilder  as  part  of  her  scheme  of  revenge  for  the  wrongs 
done  her  by  his  father.  When  in  the  Gilder  home  a 
"stool  pigeon"  is  shot  by  an  accomplice  of  Mary,  the 
police  at  first  accuse  her  of  being  guilty.  This  she  denies; 
whereupon  the  officer,  pointing  to  her  husband,  asks, 
" Did  fo  kill  him?" 

"Yes,"  she  answers. 

Naturally,  the  immediate  suggestion  is  that  she  intends 
to  add  the  disgrace  and  possible  death  of  Richard  to  her 
revenge  upon  the  elder  Gilder. 

However,  the  next  moment  Mary  adds,  "The  dead  man 
was  a  burglar:  my  husband  shot  him  in  defense  of  his 
home." 


THE  DIALOGUE  177 

Perhaps  these  examples  are  not  the  most  apt;  but  they 
will  probably  suffice  to  illustrate  connotative  dramatic 
dialogue.  Mastery  of  this  medium  is,  of  course,  to  be 
gained  only  through  much  practice  and  an  infinite  capacity 
for  revision,  as  well  as  through  the  most  complete  imagina- 
tive grasp  of  character  and  situation. 

Connotation  in  Pantomime 

As  may  readily  be  understood,  this  element  of  connota- 
tion or  suggestiveness  in  the  drama  does  not  confine  itself 
exclusively  to  speech.  Pantomime,  "business,"  depends 
largely  on  the  same  quality  for  its  effectiveness.1 

"Cyrano  de  Bergerac"  is  rich  in  instances.  The  proud 
cadets,  unwilling  to  let  Guiche  see  that  they  suffer  from 
their  hunger,  pretend  absorption  in  their  playing  and 
smoking,  as  he  enters  the  camp.  When  he  boasts  of 
his  trick  in  escaping  the  enemy  by  throwing  away  his 
white  scarf,  asking,  "What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a 
stroke?"  the  other  Gascons  feign  not  to  be  listening  for 
Cyrano's  reply.  But  they  keep  their  cards  and  dice-boxes 
poised  in  the  air,  and  the  smoke  of  their  pipes  stays  in 
their  cheeks,  till  Bergerac  answers,  "I  think  that  Henri  IV 
would  never  have  consented,  even  though  the  enemy  were 
overwhelming  him,  to  have  stripped  himself  of  his  white 

1  "The  objective  writer  tries  to  discover  the  action  or  gesture 
which  the  state  of  mind  must  inevitably  lead  to  in  the  personage 
under  certain  given  circumstances.  And  he  makes  him  so  con- 
duct himself  .  .  .  that  all  his  actions,  all  his  movements  shall 
be  the  expression  of  his  inmost  nature,  of  all  his  thoughts  and 
all  his  impulses  or  hesitancies. — GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT,  Preface 
to  Pierre  el  Jean. 


178  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

plume."  Then  there  is  silent  delight  among  the  cadets. 
The  cards  fall,  the  dice  rattle,  the  smoke  is  puffed  out. 

"The  ruse  succeeded,  though!"  Guiche  maintains. 
And  there  ensues  the  same  general  suspension  of  play  and 
of  smoking. 

"Still  one  does  not  lightly  resign  the  honor  of  being  a 
target,"  retorts  Cyrano.  And  again  cards  and  dice  fall, 
and  smoke  is  exhaled. 

Bergerac's  superb  "gestes" — the  tossing  of  the  purse  of 
gold  to  the  discomfited  comedians;  the  flinging  at  the 
feet  of  their  employer,  Guiche,  of  his  vanquished  bravos' 
tattered  hats;  the  unexpected  production  of  the  white 
scarf  which  the  Comte  had  said  no  man  could  retrieve, 
and  live — these  and  many  others  are  obvious  examples  of 
connotative  pantomime.  And,  to  repeat  what  must  be 
often  said,  dialogue  in  the  drama  should  never  begin  until 
after  pantomime  has  left  off.  That  which  the  "business" 
has  so  emphatically  expressed  is  only  weakened  by  repe- 
tition in  words. 

Sarcey,  writing  of  the  "Fedora"  of  Sardou,  tells  us, 
"This  whole  first  act  is  a  marvel  of  mise  en  scene.  It  is 
made  up  of  nothings,  and  yet  there  issues  from  it  an 
inexpressible  emotion.  It  is  life  itself,  real  life,  placed 
upon  the  stage.  The  author,  in  his  malice  (I  use  this 
word  purposely),  has  set  the  inquest  on  the  front  stage, 
while  the  wounded  man  is  being  cared  for  behind  a  closed 
door.  Each  time  this  door  opens  for  some  detail  of  serv- 
ice, the  image  of  the  dying  man  appears  to  interrupt  the 
investigation,  which  a  moment  later  is  resumed." 

It  all  springs  from  the  fundamental  fact  which  Sarcey 


THE   DIALOGUE  179 

himself  more  than  once  avers  he  will  not  cease  to  repeat — 
and  which  his  followers  have  often  enough  reiterated: 
"Tout  est  illusion  au  thtdtre." 

Dialogue  Not  a  Substitute  for  Character  or  Plot 

So  far  as  dialogue  is  concerned,  above  all  else  the  play- 
wright must  remember  that  no  mere  verbal  felicity  will 
ever  substitute  for  character  and  story  in  the  drama. 
There  are,  as  I  have  said,  whole  scenes  of  scintillant 
epigram-making  in  Wilde,  but  there  are  also  brilliancy  of 
characterization  and  ingenuity  of  plot.  There  are  many 
lines  of  fresh  and  captivating  music  in  "The  Playboy  of 
the  Western  World,"  but  there  are  humanity  and  struggle 
in  generous  measure  besides. 

In  the  plays  of  lesser  yet  able  playwrights  action  often 
lags  while  dialogue  flourishes.  It  is  thus  even  in  so  inter- 
esting a  conception  as  Mr.  Israel  Zangwill's  "The  Melting 
Pot,"  where  at  times  declamation  too  greatly  predominates 
over  dramatic  incident.  It  is  so,  too,  in  "  The  Trail  of  the 
Lonesome  Pine," — oddly  enough,  dramatized  by  that  arch- 
realist,  Mr.  Eugene  Walter,— in  "The  Winterfeast"  of 
Mr.  Charles  Rann  Kennedy,  and  in  the  "To-morrow"  of 
Mr.  Percy  Mackaye. 

"The  work  of  the  theatre,"  Sarcey  avers,  "is  above  all  a 
work  of  condensation.  The  mind  of  the  author  must  make 
all  the  reflections,  his  heart  must  experience  all  the  senti- 
ments the  subject  comprises,  but  on  condition  that  he 
give  to  the  spectator  only  the  substance  of  them.  This 
phrase  should  sum  up  twenty  pages;  that  word  should 
contain  the  gist  of  twenty  phrases.  It  is  for  the  playgoer, 


l8o  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

who  is  our  collaborator  much  more  than  we  realize,  to  find 
in  the  little  that  is  said  to  him  all  that  which  is  not  said; 
and  he  will  never  fail  to  do  so,  so  long  as  the  phrase  is 
just,  and  the  word  true." 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  From  one  of  your  own  plots,  describe  a  situation  and 
give  explicit  directions  for  the  "business" — all  pantomime. 

2.  From  any  printed  modern  play  quote  a  specimen  of 
excellent  poetic  dialogue.    Be  sure  to  choose  a  play  that 
has  had  actual  stage  production. 

3.  Similarly,  give  a  good  specimen  of  rhetorical  dialogue. 

4.  Similarly,  of  realistic  dialogue. 

5.  Write  two  specimens  of  realistic  dialogue  based  on 
one  of  your  own  plots. 

6.  Write  a  specimen  of  dialogue  using  either  epigram 
or  delicate  humor. 

7.  Write  a  bit  of  dialogue  intended  to  reveal  character. 

8.  Write  a  bit  of  dialogue  intended  to  advance  the  plot. 
Base  it  on  one  of  your  own  plots  and  explain  your  object 
in  using  the  dialogue. 

9.  Cite  as  many  instances  as  you  can  of  (a)  connotative 
dialogue;  (b)  connotative  pantomime. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


KINDS   OF   PLAYS 

If  the  struggle  is  that  of  a  will  against  nature  or  against 
destiny,  against  itself  or  against  another  will,  the  spectacle  will 
generally  be  tragic.  It  will  generally  be  comic,  if  the  struggle  is 
that  of  a  will  against  some  base  instinct,  or  against  some  stupid 
prejudice,  against  the  dictates  of  fashion,  or^  against  the  con- 
ventions we  call  social. — FERDINAND  BRUNETIERE,  Les  Epoques 
du  Theatre  Fran$ais. 

It  is  true  that  the  tragic  fused  with  the  comic,  Seneca  mingled 
with  Terence,  produces  no  less  a  monster  than  was  Pasiphae's 
Minotaur.  But  this  abnormity  pleases:  people  will  not  see  any 
other  plays  but  such  as  are  half  serious,  half  ludicrous;  nature 
herself  teaches  this  variety  from  which  she  borrows  part  of  her 
beauty. — LOPE  DE  VEGA,  as  quoted  by  LESSING,  Dramatic  Notes. 

Under  the  general  division  of  story  plays  will  naturally 
fall  melodrama  and  farce.  As  character  plays,  comedy  and 
tragedy  may  be  classified.  Nondescript  dramatic  pieces 
in  which  story,  character,  or  neither,  may  predominate 
may  be  conveniently  designated — when  they  at  all 
deserve  the  title — as  plays  of  ideas. 

Dr.  Hennequin,  in  his  "Art  of  Playwriting,"  mentions 
the  following  different  kinds  of  plays:  tragedy;  comedy; 
drome,  or  Schauspiel;  the  society  play,  otherwise  known 
as  the  piece,  or  the  emotional  drama;  melodrama;  spec- 
tacular drama;  musical  drama;  farce  comedy,  or  farcical 
comedy;  farce;  burlesque;  burletta;  comedietta.  And 


1 82  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

he  further  subdivides  comedy  into  ancient  classic  comedy, 
romantic  comedy,  comedy  of  manners,  and  comedy 
drama. 

At  least  when  considering  the  drama  historically,  we 
have  to  take  into  account  also  the  mystery,  the  morality, 
the  miracle,  the  interlude,  the  chronicle,  the  history  play, 
the  tragedy  of  blood,  the  tragi-comedy,  the  comedy  of 
humors,  and  the  heroic  play.  And  nowadays  the  satire — 
such  as  "What  the  Public  Wants,"  or  "Fanny's  First 
Play;"  and  the  fantasy— "Chantecler,"  "The  Yellow 
Jacket,"  "The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl,"  "The  Lady  from 
the  Sea,"  "The  Legend  of  Leonora" — have  almost 
assumed  the  proportions  and  distinctiveness  of  separate 
forms. 

Obviously,  these  are  all  to  a  large  extent  overlapping 
categories.  Moreover,  when  we  boil  the  entire  nomen- 
clature down  to  its  essentials,  we  find  that  only  comedy 
and  tragedy  are  fundamental,  and  the  principal  distinc- 
tions arise  according  as  the  stress  is  laid  on  characteriza- 
tion or  on  plot. 

Dramatists  of  to-day  frequently  hesitate  to  classify 
their  works.  They  call  their  pieces  "plays"  and  leave  it 
to  the  critics  to  be  more  specific.  Often  enough,  too,  the 
dramatists  are  amply  justified  by  the  critics'  disagreement. 
As  a  rule,  the  tendency  has  been  to  put  on  the  loftier 
interpretation — to  speak  of  farce  or  farce-comedy  as 
comedy,  and  of  melodrama  and  its  variants  as  tragedy. 

It  must  not  be  inferred,  however,  that  it  is  unimportant 
for  the  playwright  to  be  reasonably  certain  as  to  the 
proper  classification  of  his  work.  On  the  contrary,  one  of 


KINDS   OF  PLAYS  183 

the  principal  sources  of  failure  is  the  "romantic"  mingling 
of  the  genres1  in  drama,  the  variation  in  the  same  piece 
from  true  comedy  to  mere  farce,  and  vice  versa;  from 
comedy  to  melodrama;  from  character  stress  to  strictly 
plot  emphasis.  As  has  been  pointed  out,  this  does  not 
mean  to  say  that  farce  and  comedy,  farce  and  melodrama, 
melodrama  and  tragedy,  comedy  and  tragedy,  may  not 
be  combined  in  successful  plays.  But  such  blendings  are 
full  of  risk,  except  where  managed  with  the  utmost  skill. 
Nothing  is  more  confusing  to  the  spectator  than  an 
abrupt  and  awkward  shift  of  emphasis  or  key.  Yet  such 
an  effect  is  only  too  easy  for  the  playwright  who  has  ill 
considered  his  characters,  and  who  accordingly  is  prone 
to  slip  into  conventional  grooves  of  story-telling. 

Tendency  toward  Melodrama 

Since  the  public  likes  plot,  and  the  muthos  is  really  more 
essential  than  the  tthos,  and,  furthermore,  because  it  is 
easier  to  tell  a  story  than  it  is  to  portray  character  effec- 
tively in  the  play,  the  tendency  is  always  toward  the 
predominance  of  farce  and  melodrama.  In  fact,  realistic 
melodrama  is  the  classification  that  blankets  the  majority 
of  successful  American  plays.  Our  "romantic  dramas" — 
all  the  cloak-and-sword  pieces  of  the  end  of  the  last 
century — are  sheer  melodrama.  So  is  most  of  our 
"tragedy."  Now  there  is  distinctly  no  shame  attached  to 
the  writing  of  the  melodramatic,  at  least  not  when  it  con- 
fesses its  identity  frankly.  The  harm  lies  merely  in  the 

1  For  definitions  of,  and  distinctions  among,  the  various  kinds 
of  plays,  see  the  glossary  which  prefaces  this  volume. 


184  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

tendency  to  excess,  the  temptation  to  disregard  truth  and 
logic  to  the  point  of  absurdity  and  to  produce  a  lying 
"picture  of  life"  capable  of  misleading  the  unsophisticated 
while  it  grieves  the  judicious.  This  is  not  to  inveigh  against 
idealism  and  fictional  dreaming.  By  all  means  let  us  gild 
the  dull  realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions.  But  let 
us  not  deceive  ourselves  into  accepting  impractical  visions 
for  truth,  since  by  so  doing  we  are  likely  to  lead  ourselves 
into  hypocrisy  and  sloth. 

It  has  already  been  noted  how  dramatists  have  often 
exhibited  a  tendency  to  get  away  from  reality  into 
theatricism  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  a  play.  Mr. 
Porter  Emerson  Browne,  for  example,  began  his  melo- 
drama, "The  Spendthrift,"  with  an  excellent' portrayal  of 
the  extravagant  wife  who  heedlessly  ruins  her  husband. 
In  the  second  act,  however,  he  departed  incontinently 
from  material  inherently  of  true  drama  and  plunged  into 
an  artificial  melodramatic  situation,  for  the  purposes  of 
which  he  had  to  bring  on  a  character  that  had  scarcely 
been  named  theretofore  and  that  was  utterly  unreal. 
Frankly  fabricated  stage  fables,  like  Mr.  Browne's  "A 
Fool  There  Was,"  or  "Madame  X,"  or  "The  Master 
Mind,"  or  "The  Hawk,"  have  their  place;  but  authors — 
and  we — should  know  what  it  is. 

Improvement  in  Melodrama 

An  inevitable  result  of  the  workings  of  the  realistic 
movement  has  been  the  moderation  and  general  improve- 
ment of  the  tone  of  both  melodrama  and  farce.  We  are 
forcibly  struck  with  this  fact  when  we  read — and  more 


KINDS  OF  PLAYS  185 

especially  when  we  witness  revivals  of — old  specimens  of 
these  genres  and  compare  them  with  the  modern  product. 
The  old-style  melodrama  was  a  fabric  of  what  we  now 
consider  absurd  fustian  and  bombast.  The  hero  was 
outrageously  heroic,  the  villain  incredibly  villainous,  and 
the  heroine  unspeakably  guileless  and  na'ive.  Obviously 
they  were  but  puppets:  when  their  strings  became  inex- 
tricably tangled,  the  Master  of  the  Show  appeared  in  the 
character  of  Deus  ex  Machina  and  swiftly  straightened 
them  out.  For  example,  after  George  R.  Sims,  in 
"The  Lights  o'  London,"  has  made  his  hero  lose  wife, 
liberty,  and  fortune,  he  restores  all  three  at  the  final 
curtain  by  means  of  a  sub-villain  turned  state's  evi- 
dence and  an  unsuspected  will  that  gets  conveniently 
discovered. 

In  our  melodrama  to-day  we  require  unconventional 
complications,  soft-pedalling  upon  the  arbitrary,1  and  at 
least  some  pretense  of  inevitability,  together  with  a 
naturalness  of  dialogue  directly  opposed  to  the  stilted 
rhetoric  of  the  early  Victorian  period.  In  other  words, 
we  are  elevating  our  melodrama,  at  least  in  some  respects. 
We  certainly  are  not  impressed  as  we  used  to  be,  in  the 
theatre,  with  blood-and-thunder  mountain  feuds  and 
Wild  West  primitivism — witness  the  recent  experience  of 
"The  Battle  Cry"  and  "Yosemite."  Heaven  knows,  we 
get, more  than  enough  of  this  sort  of  claptrap  in  our 
motion  pictures. 

However,  the  fact  of  this  change  of  attitude  does  not 
mean  that  we  are  not  still  willing  to  swallow  almost 

1  See  page  121. 


1 86  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

unlimited  doses  of  the  arbitrary,  particularly  when  the 
dialogue  is  fairly  realistic  and  there  is  a  superficial  pretense 
of  actuality  in  the  characterization.  We  strain  at  a  gnat 
like  "Rosedale,"  but  we  make  no  bones  of  swallowing 
camels  like  "The  Nigger"  or  "La  Rafale."  In  Mr.  Shel- 
don's piece  we  have  a  hero  who  happens  to  be  of  the  proud- 
est and  most  conspicuous  family  in  a  Southern  state  and  at 
the  same  time  of  negro  blood.  The  envious  villain  happens 
to  discover  a  letter  that  reveals  the  taint.  The  hero's 
negro  cousin  happens  to  be  in  danger  of  lynching  and  to 
appeal  to  him  for  protection.  And  when,  in  Act  I,  this 
cousin's  mother  goes  to  the  very  verge  of  revealing  to  the 
hero  this  undesirable  consanguinity,  the  hero  happens  not 
to  grow  curious  enough  to  ask  her  what  she  is  so  obviously 
on  the  point  of  disclosing.  All  this  is  of  the  theatre  merely 
and  wholly  foreign  to  life  as  everyone  knows  it.  Yet 
"The  Nigger"  gets  a  much  more  respectful  hearing  than 
"The  Lights  o'  London" — gets  almost  the  hearing,  in 
fact,  that  it  would  have  deserved  had  it  been  the  great 
tragedy  its  theme  implies. 

As  for  Monsieur  Henri  Bernstein,  his  popular  pieces 
are  all  artificial  specimens  of  theatrical  joinery,  built 
often  of  specious  materials:  he  is  obviously  Scribe  plus 
Sardou  plus  the  trappings  of  modern  realism,  and  his 
contribution  to  the  drama  is  a  renewed  emphasis  on  the 
climax  which  delivers  "the  punch"  by  seeming  to  reach 
its  height  and  then  resuming  its  activities  on  a  still  loftier 
emotional  level.  The  device  is  similar  to  that  of  the  idol- 
ized tenor  of  the  hour,  who  wins  and  holds  favor  through 
reserving  a  super-high-note  for  the  moment  when  the  top 


KINDS   OF  PLAYS  187 

of  human  lung-power  would  already  appear  to  have  been 
reached. 

After  all,  the  legitimate  business  of  melodrama,  like  that 
of  the  astonishing  tenor,  is  to  furnish  thrills.  At  the  Grand 
Guignol  in  Paris  the  thrill  is  founded  upon  horror.  In 
our  popular  detective-and-criminal  shockers — "The  Con- 
spiracy," "Within  the  Law,"  "The  Deep  Purple,"  "The 
Argyle  Case,"  "Jim  the  Penman,"  "Arsene  Lupin," 
"Raffles,"  "Sherlock  Holmes,"  "Under  Cover,"  "Kick 
In" — it  is  audacity  and  the  narrow  escape  that  make  us 
grip  our  chair-arms  and  lean  forward  in  our  seats.  Melo- 
drama, then,  will  be  successful  in  proportion  as  it  provides 
ever-heightening  suspense  and  a  series  of  pulse-quicken- 
ing situations  in  the  order  of  climax. 

Farce 

As  for  farce,  its  business  is  to  provoke  hilarity,  not 
merely  intermittent  and  casual,  but  continual  and  increas- 
ing. Its  situations  must  be  always  more  and  more  excru- 
ciatingly funny  up  to  a  grand  climax  of  mirth,  and  thence 
quickly  to  a  still  laughable  solution.  No  mere  aggregation 
of  verbal  felicities  and  inserted  jests  will  suffice:  the  humor 
must  chiefly  arise  from  the  complications  of  the  plot,  like 
those  in  "Twin  Beds"  or  "A  Full  House,"  and  whenever 
the  fun  lags  disaster  is  imminent. 

Amateur  melodramatists  usually  err  on  the  side  of 
excess,  amateur  farceurs  on  the  side  of  insufficiency  of 
situations.  There  is  less  necessity,  indeed,  for  humanizing 
the  figures  in  farce  than  there  is  in  melodrama.  The 
puppets  must  be  dexterously  manipulated  every  moment. 


1 88  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

And  success  usually  depends  upon  the  spectator's  willing- 
ness not  to  look  for  any  actual  relation  between  the  play 
and  life.  Everyone  knows  that  as  a  rule  in  farce  the  story 
would  end  almost  any  time  that  one  of  the  characters 
became  human  enough  to  explain  to  his  fellows  the  point 
of  mystification  upon  which  the  entire  action  turns.  And 
likewise  one  may  be  interested  in  the  violent  manoeuvres 
of  the  figures  in  a  melodrama  like  "A  Fool  There  Was"  or 
"To-day"  or  "The  Story  of  the  Rosary"  only  so  long  as 
he  makes  no  effort  to  see  in  it  a  reflection  of  life.  When 
one  does  that,  the  whole  preposterous  fabric  becomes 
intolerably  grotesque.  Illusion — voluntary  illusion — is  the 
spectator's  only  passport  to  enjoyment. 

Character  Plays 

If  an  excess  of  plot  with  a  deficiency  of  characterization 
is  likely  to  fail  of  public  approval  in  the  theatre,  so  also 
mere  stage  galleries  of  portraits,  even  though  of  distinct 
individuals,  if  unrelated  in  an  interesting  fable,  are  ill 
calculated  for  success.  Many  of  the  pundits  of  to-day 
would  doubtless  be  pleased  if  drama  demanded  nothing 
more  than  casual  revelations  of  human  nature,  but  the 
populace  persists  in  requiring  that  these  revelations  be 
made  through  stories.  And  primarily  the  theatre  de- 
pends for  its  existence  on  the  populace. 

Of  course,  there  have  been  character  plays  of  very  slight 
plot  that  have  won  a  deservedly  large  measure  of  success. 
One  readily  recalls  "Pomander  Walk"  and  "The  Passing 
of  the  Third  Floor  Back."  But  one  can  also  remember 
many  plotless  plays  that  have  regularly  "died  a-bornin'." 


KINDS  OF  PLAYS  1 89 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  the  so-called  "comedy  of  atmos- 
phere," which  is  a  mere  representation  of  some  specific 
phase  of  existence,  without  emphasis  upon  either  plot  or 
character.  "The  Weavers"  of  Hauptmann  and  "The 
Madras  House"  of  Barker  belong  in  this  class — neither  of 
them  calculated  to  make  a  popular  appeal  in  the  theatre. 
In  view  of  the  attitude  common  to  the  mass  of  playgoers, 
the  dramatist  certainly  should  select  from  the  lives  of  the 
real  men  and  women  he  is  putting  into  his  comedy  or  his 
tragedy  those  possible  incidents  and  episodes  of  conflict 
which  not  only  best  reveal  the  characters  themselves  but 
can  also  be  arranged  in  an  orderly  and  climacteric  series 
adapted  to  the  maintenance  of  suspense.  Beyond  doubt* 
it  requires  much  skill  and  patience  to  do  this  well — far 
more,  indeed,  than  merely  to  troop  the  personages  cine- 
matographically  across  the  stage  in  insignificant  disorder 
— but  the  effort  is  richly  worth  the  while. 

"To  combine  as  much  as  possible  of  the  theatric,"  says 
Mr.  Henry  James,1  "with  as  much  of  the  universal  as  the 
theatric  will  take — that  is  the  constant  problem,  and  one 
in  which  the  maximum  and  minimum  of  effect  are  separ- 
ated from  each  other  by  a  hair-line.  The  theatric  is  so 
apt  to  be  the  outward,  and  the  universal  to  be  the  inward, 
that,  in  spite  of  their  enjoying  scarcely  more  common 
ground  than  fish  and  fowl,  they  yet  often  manage  to  peck 
at  each  other  with  fatal  results.  The  outward  insists  on 
the  inward's  becoming  of  its  own  substance,  and  the 
inward  resists,  struggles,  bites,  kicks,  tries  at  least  to  drag 
the  outward  down.  The  disagreement  may  be  a  very 

1  The  Critic,  November,  1901. 


I QO  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

pretty  quarrel  and  an  interesting  literary  case;  it  is  only 
not  likely  to  be  a  successful  play." 

Plays  of  Ideas 

Doubtless  the  recipe  for  writing  the  play  of  ideas  begins 
"First  catch  your  idea."  And  when  it  has  been  captured, 
it  will  have  to  be  mirrored  by  means  of  more  or  less 
human  personages,  in  at  least  some  semblance  of  a  plot. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  almost  any  good  play  is  a  play  of  ideas 
plus  a  play  of  characters  plus  a  play  of  plot.  It  is  the 
piece  that  is  deficient  in  the  last  two  ingredients  that  often 
enough  falls  back  upon  its  ideas  for  its  only  means  of 
support.  A  play  that  is  most  readily  and  exclusively 
classifiable  as  a  play  of  ideas  is  likely  to  be  a  very  poor  play, 
if,  indeed,  it  does  not  turn  out  to  be  no  play  at  all.  It  may 
be  a  mere  series  of  scenes,  with  almost  no  story  and  the 
merest  types  for  personages.  In  that  case,  it  is  really  an 
animated  tract — little  more  than  a  modern  Pseudo- 
Augustinian  sermon — dependent  for  its  success  upon  the 
moral  it  involves,  and  therefore  not  amenable  to  the 
ordinary  canons  of  art. 

Much  is  being  said  nowadays  about  this  "new"  drama, 
which  is  in  reality  only  the  result  of  an  increased  effort 
on  the  part  of  the  theatre  to  relate  itself  to  the  character- 
istic social  and  political  unrest  of  the  times.  After  all, 
the  very  term  "drama  of  ideas"  is  in  a  sense  self-contra- 
dictory, since  the  drama  is  essentially  not  a  matter  of 
intellectual,  but  of  emotional  appeal.  And  so  far  as 
morals  are  concerned,  and  as  for  problems  individual  or 
social,  the  theatre  is  far  more  available  and  effective  as  a 


KINDS   OF  PLAYS  igi 

teacher  by  example  than  by  precept.  The  play  of  ideas  is 
usually  only  a  masquerading  preachment;  and,  of  course, 
if  there  is  an  ass  in  the  lion's  skin,  sooner  or  later  he  is 
recognized  by  his  braying. 

We  are  told  that  in  Paris,  which  is  the  home  of  cubism 
and  futurism  and  every  other  bizarre  and  outre  pretense  of 
artistic  evolution  and  reform,  the  "new"  drama  has  been 
carried  even  to  the  point  where  silence  or  mere  general 
talk  about  the  weather  is  to  be  employed  for  conveying 
the  impressions  of  the  most  violent  passion — since  in  real 
life  people  who  are  angry  or  jealous  usually  remain  silent 
or  employ  language  only  to  conceal  emotion!  After  all, 
this  preposterous  undertaking  is  only  the  logical  out- 
growth of  Monsieur  Maeterlinck's  mystic  endeavors  to 
"  express  the  inexpressible  by  means  of  that  which  does 
not  occur." 

Perhaps  the  only  thing  of  significance  about  the  "new" 
drama  is  the  fact  that  it  is  urging  forward  the  slowly 
developing  popular  feeling  for  character  and  for  the 
spiritual  and  the  psychological,  rather  than  for  mere 
physical  action  in  the  theatre.  As  the  masses  grow  in 
discrimination,  they  will  naturally  put  less  and  less  em- 
phasis upon  mere  narrative,  more  and  more  upon  the 
significant  facts  of  human  nature  and  experience.  But 
this  process  may  be  easily  urged  too  far,  with  consequent 
reaction  and  perhaps  retrogression.  Certainly  there  is 
no  possibility  of  abruptly  wrenching  the  drama  out  of  the 
emotional  and  into  the  intellectual  realm.  When  that 
can  be  done,  drama  will,  in  fact,  have  ceased  to  be  drama. 

What  is  chiefly  desirable  in  the  theatre  is  not  so  much 


IQ2  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

plays  of  ideas  as  plays  with  ideas.  As  men  like  Huxley 
have  frequently  reiterated,  the  emotional  and  the  intel- 
lectual processes  are  not  separate  and  distinct;  and  the 
higher  the  degree  of  general  civilization  the  more  com- 
pletely will  these  two  phases  of  self-activity  coalesce  and 
cooperate.  The  great  questions  of  human  conduct  and 
relationships  are  nearly  all  worthy,  not  only  of  debate, 
but  also  of  dramatic  treatment.  Character  in  conflict 
with  environment  and  heredity  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  our 
chief  individual  problems,  and  such  conflict  is  essentially 
dramatic  in  the  extreme. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  From  all  the  sources  at  your  command,  make  as  full 
a  list  of  kinds  of  plays  as  you  can. 

2.  Adopt  some  general  scheme  of  grouping  and  place 
each  kind  in  a  suitable  category. 

3.  In  a  sentence  or  two,  describe  the  essential  nature  of 
each.    Try  to  differentiate  each  kind  from  others  akin  to  it. 

4.  Without  forcing,  try  to  find  a  play  that  illustrates 
each  kind,  but  remember  that  many  popular  and  enter- 
taining plays  overlap  as  to  kind.    We  are  now  trying  to 
differentiate   types   with    technical   accuracy,    not   con- 
demning plays  as  worthless  because  they  contain  technical 
defects.    They  would  be  better  plays  technically  had  their 
authors  observed  more  carefully  these  well-known  laws — 
that  is  the  viewpoint  to  take  in  trying  to  fulfill  this  assign- 
ment. 

5.  After  you  have  succeeded  in  completing  this  table  as 


KINDS  OF  PLAYS  193 

well  as  possible,  copy  it  in  a  note  book,  being  careful  to 
leave  room  for  additions. 

6.  In  a  considerable  number  of  plays  point  out  the 
passages    embodying    exposition,    characterization,    con- 
flict, situation,  complication,  increased  suspense,  crisis, 
contrast,   connotative  dialogue,  humor  of  plot  and  of 
character,  surprise,  climax,  denouement,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  theme. 

7.  It  is  now  time  to  be  about  writing  your  full-length 
play.    Reread  this  volume,  note-book  in  hand.    Decide 
on  a  theme  or  a  foundation  incident,  outline  your  plot, 
sketch    the  grouping  of   characters,  develop  your  char- 
acters by  description  for  your  own  guidance,  determine  on 
their  relative  prominence,  and  assign  the  space  to  be  given 
to  each  act.    Before  beginning  the  actual  writing,  however, 
study  carefully  the  next  two  chapters  and  leave  the 
material  gathered  for  the  longer  piece  of  work  until  you 
shall  have  labored  faithfully  at  the  writing  of  several  one- 
act  plays,  both  adapted  and  original.    Take  plenty  of 
time  to  revise  and  re-revise;   study  the  stage-books  of 
successful  modern  plays;  and  lay  your  work  aside  to  cool. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE   ONE-ACT   PLAY 

In  both  the  short  story  and  the  play  the  space  is  narrow,  and 
the  action  or  episode  must  be  complete  in  itself.  In  each  case, 
therefore,  you  must  find  or  invent  scenes  which  put  the  greatest 
amount  of  the  story  into  the  least  space:  in  more  technical  words, 
scenes  which  shall  have  the  greatest  possible  significance. — J. 
H.  GARDINER,  The  Forms  of  Prose  Literature. 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration  of  an  effect. 
Keeping  originality  always  in  view — for  he  is  false  to  himself 
who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so  obvious  and  so  easily  attainable 
a  source  of  interest — I  say  to  myself,  in  the  first  place,  "Of  the 
innumerable  effects,  or  impressions,  of  which  the  heart,  intellect, 
or  (more  generally)  the  soul  is  susceptible,  what  one  shall  I  on 
the  present  occasion  choose?" — EDGAR  ALLAN  POE,  The  Phi- 
losophy of  Composition. 

The  one-act  play  is  to  the  play  of  three,  four,  or  five 
acts  much  as  the  short-story  is  to  the  novel.  And,  as  there 
are  novelists  who  fail  at  short-story  writing,  and  vice  versa, 
so  there  are  dramatists  qualified  to  deal  in  full-evenings' 
entertainments  who  are  helpless  in  the  realm  of  the 
playlet,  and  the  reverse. 

Singleness  of  Effect  and  Economy 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Edgar  Allan  Foe's  theory 
of  the  short-story  is  summed  up  in  the  word  "effect." 
The  fiction  writer  labors  from  the  very  first  sentence  of 
his  story  to  the  very  last  with  an  eye  single  to  the  working 


THE   ONE-ACT  PLAY  1 95 

out  of  "a  certain  unique  or  single  effect."  "If  his  very 
initial  sentence  tend  not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect, 
then  he  has  failed  in  his  first  step.  In  the  whole  composi- 
tion there  should  be  no  word  written,  of  which  the  ten- 
dency, direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre-established 
design." 

As  much  may  be  said  for  the  one-act  play.  Within  the 
limits  of  a  half-hour  or  less — and  oftener  less — the  author 
can  produce  by  means  of  a  single  incident  only  a  single 
effect,  and  to  that  purpose  all  else  must  be  subordinated. 
Therefore  if  it  is  dangerous  to  mingle  the  genres  in  ordi- 
nary drama,  it  is  next  to  fatal  to  do  so  in  the  one-act 
piece. 

After  unity  or  singleness  of  purpose,  economy  is  the  most 
vital  principle.  Every  moment  between  curtains  is 
precious.  There  is  little  enough  room  for  being  leisurely 
in  the  long  play,  and  certainly  none  at  all  in  the  playlet. 
For  the  same  reason,  there  is  no  possibility  of  character 
development.  All  must  be  swiftly  drawn — connoted — 
suggested.  There  is  little  time  for  exposition.  A  one-act 
play  cannot  succeed  if  much  preliminary  information  is 
requisite  to  a  comprehension  of  the  plot.  The  initial 
situation  must  be  set  forth  in  the  first  few  moments  by 
means  of  broad  and  telling  strokes.  Here  more  than 
ever  is  there  need  of  that  perfect  dialogue  which  both 
reveals  character  and  tells  the  story.  The  mere  de- 
tachable jest  that  ventures  to  impede  either  process 
must  be  extraordinary  not  to  be  excessive.  In  gen- 
eral, selection  of  details  operates  most  effectively  in  the 
short  play. 


Ip6  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

A  Desirable  Vehicle  for  the  Playwright 

Obviously  the  one-act  piece  offers  the  amateur  author 
the  easiest  opportunity  for  testing  his  skill.  The  tune  and 
labor  involved  in  its  composition  is  perhaps  less  than  a 
fourth  or  a  fifth  of  that  demanded  for  the  four-  or  five-act 
drama.  Beginners  will  do  well  to  practice  the  various 
forms  of  composition  in  the  brief  sketch,  before  venturing 
upon  the  full-fledged  play.  There  are  numerous  important 
collections  of  playlets  available  for  study,  including 
Sudermann's  Morituri  and  the  noteworthy  work  of  the 
Irish  dramatists.  For  one-act  tragedy  what  can  surpass 
Synge's  superb  "Riders  to  the  Sea"?  And  the  other 
genres  are  well  exemplified  in  the  work  of  Lady  Gregory, 
of  Mr.  William  Butler  Yeats,  and  of  their  distinguished 
colleagues. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  opportunities  for  securing  the 
production  of  one-act  pieces  is,  particularly  in  America, 
exceedingly  limited.  Our  better  vaudeville  houses  use  a 
considerable  number  of  sketches,  a  few  of  which  are  worth 
mentioning  as  drama — such,  for  instance,  as  Sir  James 
M.  Barrie's  "The  Twelve  Pound  Look,"  Mr.  Austin 
Strong's  "The  Drums  of  Oude,"  or  Mr.  George  Ade's 
"Mrs.  Peckham's  Carouse" — but  most  of  which  are 
either  mere  slapstick  buffoonery  or  penny  dreadfuls. 
Occasionally  an  American  theatre  follows  the  English 
custom  and  precedes  a  longer  piece  with  a  one-act  play, 
or  "curtain-raiser."  Still  more  rarely  there  are  pro- 
grammes of  one-act  dramas,  and  the  example  of  the 
Grand  Guignol  at  Paris  has  been  followed  in  one  or  two 
instances. 


THE   ONE-ACT  PLAY  IQ7 

Range,  and  General  Qualities 

The  horrible  can  be  successfully  utilized  in  the  short 
play  as  in  the  short-story,  whereas  it  is  not  adapted  to  the 
longer  drama  or  the  novel.  "If  it  were  done,  when  'tis 
done,  then  'twere  well  it  were  done  quickly." 

In  fact,  the  range  of  subject-matter  open  to  the  one-act 
play  is  almost  unlimited.  A  taste  of  anything  is  often 
acceptable  where  a  mouthful  would  be  repellent.  Cer- 
tainly whatever  is  presented  should  be  given  with  the 
utmost  emphasis.  The  conclusion,  in  particular,  requires 
forcefulness;  and  nothing  is  more  effective  than  a  novel  or 
unexpected  climax,  followed,  as  it  should  be,  by  a  next-to- 
instantaneous  denouement.  The  ironical  termination  of 
Mr.  Booth  Tarkington's  "Beauty  and  the  Jacobin"  is  a 
specimen  of  excellence  in  this  respect. 

In  "The  Drums  of  Oude"  the  hero  and  the  heroine  are 
waiting  in  an  Indian  palace  for  the  sound  of  a  bugle  which 
will  tell  them  that  the  Sepoys  are  commencing  a  massacre. 
There  is  powder  stored  under  the  floor  of  the  room,  with 
a  fuse  attached.  When  the  bugle  call  comes,  the  hero 
lights  the  fuse  and  holds  the  girl  in  his  arms.  Then  they 
hear  the  pibrochs  of  a  Scotch  regiment  to  the  rescue,  and 
the  fuse  is  extinguished  at  almost  the  last  possible  instant. 
Obviously,  this  little  melodrama  concentrates  suspense 
and  concludes  with  telling  effect. 

In  "The  Man  in  Front,"  which  is  said  to  be  the  work  of 
Mr.  Alfred  Sutro,  a  husband  is  informed  by  his  wife  that 
his  friend  is  her  lover.  The  husband  is  on  the  point  of 
strangling  the  friend,  but  at  the  crucial  moment  the  wife 
explains  that  her  story  was  merely  intended  to  make  the 


198  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WHITING 

husband  himself  disprove  his  own  theory  that,  in  such  an 
instance  in  real  life,  the  lover  would  be  in  no  special 
danger.  In  reality,  her  motive  has  been  anger  over  her 
lover's  announcement  that  he  is  affianced.  In  the  end 
she  offers  him  the  whispered  choice  between  remaining  a 
live  bachelor  and  suffering  the  consequences  of  her 
husband's  rage.  The  lover  promptly  chooses  the  former 
alternative. 

In  a  playlet  of  similar  basis,  "The  Woman  Intervenes," 
by  Mr.  J.  Hartley  Manners,  the  lover  is  saved  from  the 
husband's  wrath  through  the  heroic  offices  of  an  old  flame, 
who  announces  her  engagement  to  the  lover  and  so  makes 
apparent  his  innocence.  The  means  of  suspense  in  both 
pieces  is  the  same — that,  indeed,  which  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  " eternal  triangle "  situation.  In  "The  Man  in  Front," 
however,  there  is  novelty  in  the  expedient  adopted  by  the 
woman  to  save  her  lover's  life,  with  a  consequent  surprise 
which  greatly  heightens  the  effectiveness  of  the  little  play. 
Especially  in  vaudeville  is  this  sort  of  final  knock-out  blow 
a  sine  qua  non. 

Certainly  there  is  even  less  excuse  or  hope  for  the  con- 
ventional in  the  short  drama  than  in  the  long.  This 
naturally  follows  from  the  fact  that '  in  the  playlet  there 
is  no  opportunity  to  redeem  triteness  of  plot  with  excel- 
lence of  characterization.  Mr.  Richard  Harding  Davis  is 
the  author  of  a  sketch  entitled  "Miss  Civilization,"  which 
is  a  case  in  point.  In  this  piece  we  encounter  such  ancient 
friends  as  the  young  woman  in  a  dressing-gown,  alone  in  a 
country  house,  entertaining  three  serio-comic  burglars 
until  rescuers  arrive — whereupon,  in  accord  with  the 


THE   ONE-ACT  PLAY  1 99 

feminine  tradition,  she  faints.  One  sees  readily  that  she 
would  have  to  be  an  extraordinarily  accomplished  and 
facile  young  person  to  entertain,  not  only  her  burglars, 
but  also  the  audience  during  the  considerable  interval 
while  she  is  waiting  for  help.  Here  characters  and  situa- 
tion alike  are  too  antiquated  to  win  sustained  interest. 

The  Ironical  Playlet 

The  one-act  play  has  often  been  successfully  employed 
in  satire.  In  fact,  brevity  is  the  soul  of  irony.  Prolonged 
ridicule  soon  loses  its  effectiveness:  it  is  a  seasoning  which, 
unless  used  sparingly,  dulls  the  palate.  In  any  case,  the 
successful  dramatic  satire  is  that  which  utilizes  the  dis- 
tinctive means  of  the  drama,  making  its  points  concretely 
in  illustrative  action  rather  than  in  mere  talk.  One  can 
find  amusement  in  a  trifle  like  Mr.  William  C.  DeMille's 
"Food,"  which  is  scarcely  more  than  a  dialogue  of  clever 
exaggeration,  but  one's  pleasure  becomes  indefinitely 
heightened  at  sight  of  the  travesty  figures,  in  Sir  James 
M.  Barrie's  "A  Slice  of  Life,"  really  acting  out  his  exposure 
of  what  is  most  absurd  in  our  modern  realistic  problem 
drama. 

In  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  "How  He  Lied  to  Her  Hus- 
band," the  student  will  find  much  delightful  and  telling 
paradox  in  both  the  talk  and  the  behavior  of  the 
"Candida"  triangle  in  miniature,  but  little  in  the  way  of 
distinct  characterization. 

That  the  one-act  piece  affords  a  large  opportunity  for 
dramatic  portraiture,  however,  has  been  frequently  proved. 
A  recent  example  is  Mr.  Willard  Mack's  "Vindication," 


200  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

so  excellently  acted  in  vaudeville  by  Mr.  Frank  Keenan 
and  his  company.  Except  for  some  brief  expository  talk 
intended  to  reveal  the  impulsive  warm-heartedness  of  the 
governor,  the  play  is  largely  a  sort  of  interrupted  mono- 
logue, in  the  course  of  which  the  old  Confederate  soldier, 
waging  a  valiant  and  almost  hopeless  fight  for  his  boy's 
good  name,  sets  himself  before  us  in  all  his  weakness  and 
strength,  pitiful,  laughable,  lovable — as  wholly  "sympa- 
thetic" a  figure  as  one  could  well  imagine.  Throughout, 
the  little  drama  grips  us  with  its  spectacle  of  a  brave, 
frank,  shrewd  struggle  against  big  odds,  as  well  as  with  its 
representation  of  a  human  soul. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Outline,  analyze,  and  criticise  any  one- act  play  you 
have  seen. 

2.  Solely  for  practice,  and  not  with  a  view  to  produc- 
tion, map  out  a  playlet  from  a  well-known  short-story. 

3.  Invent  two  or  three  themes  or  situations  for  one- 
act  plays. 

4.  In  the  manner  outlined  on  page  193  (Exercise  7, 
Chapter  XVI)  set  about  writing  a  one-act  play. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SCENARIO   MAKING   AND   MECHANICAL 
PROCESSES 

The  scenario  or  skeleton  is  so  manifestly  the  natural  ground- 
work of  a  dramatic  performance  that  the  playwrights  of  the 
Italian  commedia  dell'  arte  wrote  nothing  more  than  a  scheme 
of  scenes,  and  left  the  actors  to  do  the  rest.  The  same  practice 
prevailed  in  early  Elizabethan  days,  as  one  or  two  MS.  "Plats," 
designed  to  be  hung  up  in  the  wings,  are  extant  to  testify. — 
WILLIAM  ARCHER,  Play-Making. 

Hand-script  is  difficult  to  read  at  best  and  irritates  your  very 
busy  judge;  the  manuscript  reader  cannot  give  full  attention 
to  your  work  if  the  act  of  reading  becomes  laborious;  uncon- 
sciously he  regards  hand-script  as  the  sign  manual  of  inex- 
perience  Neatness  counts  for  as  much  in  a  manuscript 

as  do  clean  cuffs  on  a  salesman. — J.  BERG  ESENWEIN,  Writing 
the  Short-Story. 

There  is  a  relation  between  the  one-act  play  and  the 
scenario,  if  only  a  quantitative  one.  The  scenario  is  in 
reality  a  condensed  version  of  the  longer  play,  partaking 
of  the  tabloid  features  of  the  playlet.  Practice  in  writing 
either  form  should  help  in  the  other.  Certainly  the 
ability  to  devise  a  good  outline  is  the  natural  precedent 
of-  successful  play  writing.  It  is  an  idle  fear  that  taboos 
the  scenario  as  restricting  the  author's  and  the  characters' 
freedom  in  the  development  of  the  play.  After  the 
personages  have  been  conceived  and  thrown  together 
under  the  basic  conditions,  it  can  be  a  question  of  but  a 


202  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

short  time  until  the  playwright  will  want  to  cast,  in  at 
least  some  definite,  if  tentative  form,  the  sequence  of 
events  that  issue  from  the  combination.  And  even  though 
he  map  out  a  detailed  story,  incident  by  incident,  act  by 
act,  even  though  he  include  bits  of  dialogue  or  whole 
scenes,  there  is  no  valid  reason  why,  should  he  later  see 
fit,  he  should  not  revise  the  entire  programme  or  rewrite 
every  word  of  it.  On  the  other  hand,  unless  he  have  an 
extraordinarily  retentive  memory,  he  will  find  it  difficult 
to  bear  in  mind  the  many  threads  of  conduct  and  character 
it  is  his  business  to  weave  together. 

In  the  preparation  of  the  scenario  for  use  in  the 
actual  writing  of  the  play,  every  freedom  is,  of  course, 
available.  During  the  fine  frenzy  of  invention,  ideas 
will  be  jotted  down  pell-mell;  and  even  when  the  first 
effort  at  the  establishment  of  order  takes  place,  the 
author  will  pay  little  heed  to  strict  proportion  and  em- 
phasis. 

Having  his  environment  and  characters  and  the  first 
indefinite  intimations  of  the  trend  of  the  plot,  he  will 
probably  begin  by  mapping  out  a  scheme  of  time  and 
place,  which  will  depend  upon  or  result  in  the  preliminary 
division  into  acts  and  scenes. 

General  Suggestions 

In  planning  the  one-act  play  it  will  usually  be  best  to 
employ  only  one  scene  and  to  make  the  time  of  action 
continuous.  Latter-day  realism  demands  that  acting- 
time  and  actual  time  should  be  identical.  The  stage  clock 
that  strikes  ten-thirty  six  minutes  after  it  has  struck  ten 


SCENARIO  MAKING  AND  MECHANICAL  PROCESSES      203 

is  likely  to  excite  derision.  Besides,  in  nearly  every 
instance,  a  little  ingenuity  should  suffice  to  synchronize 
with  actuality  the  time  of  any  single  scene. 

Furthermore,  in  the  drama  to-day  the  author  must  take 
into  consideration  the  events  and  changes  that  may 
have  occurred  during  the  periods  intervening  between  the 
occasions  represented  in  the  different  acts.  Thus  each 
act  following  the  first  will  often  require  a  brief  exposition 
of  its  own,  which  will  account  for  the  entr'acte  develop- 
ments, somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  "Lennox  and 
another  Lord"  and  "Ross  and  an  Old  Man"  in  the  inter- 
vals between  Acts  II  and  III  and  Acts  III  and  IV  of 
"Macbeth."  Much,  indeed,  may  occur  off-stage  in  the 
drama — particularly  scenes  of  violence — and  be  the  more 
effective  for  the  invisibility,  always  providing  that  there 
shall  be  omitted  from  actual  representation  no  incident 
that  is  vitally  illustrative,  that  has  been  deliberately  pre- 
pared for,  that  is,  indeed,  a  Sarceyan  scene  a  faire,  or 
scene- that-w«s/-be-shown . 

Actual  Scenario  Making 

Once  the  rough  plan  is  drawn  up,  the  procedure  of 
scenario  making  will  continue  apace  with  the  process  of 
thinking  out  the  play.  Unless  one  is  a  follower  of  that 
advanced  "technique"  which  abhors  rising  and  falling 
actign  as  over-artificial,  he  will  naturally  build  up  to  a 
climax.  He  will  also  prepare  for  a  solution  not  devoid  of 
suspense  and  surprise  clear  down  to  the  final  curtain. 
Of  course,  at  every  step  the  plot  should  be  tested  by  the 
characters  in  strictest  logic;  and,  wherever  it  exceeds  or 


204  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

falls  short  of  consistency  and  probability,  it  should  be 
halted  indefinitely  for  ruthless  alteration. 

Eventually  the  working  scenario,  when  it  has  been 
copied  into  legibility,  will  probably  be  a  rather  chaotic 
conglomerate  of  first  and  third  person  remarks.  Here 
and  there,  in  important  scenes  especially,  there  will  be 
passages  in  dialogue;  though,  for  the  most  part  the  out- 
line will  be  chiefly  composed  of  narrative  and  description, 
probably  in  the  historical  present.  In  this  form  and  at 
this  stage  the  scenario  offers  almost  every  opportunity 
for  that  preliminary  self-criticism  which  may  be  as  pro- 
ductive of  the  greatest  progress  as  it  will  be  saving  of 
hasty  and  ill-considered  labor.  In  many  cases,  in  fact,  it 
will  be  found  both  expedient  and  profitable  to  put  the 
work  aside  to  "cool,"  in  order  that  a  fresher  and  a  more 
detached  and  impersonal  attitude  may  be  adopted  by  the 
author  later  on,  when  he  considers  his  project  anew. 

Preparing  the  Scenario  for  the  Producer 

As  for  the  scenario  which  is  intended  to  set  forth  the 
gist  of  a  drama  to  one  who  may  possibly  be  interested  in 
its  production,  that  is  quite  another  matter.  To  begin 
with,  it  is  written  not  before  but  after  the  actual  composi- 
tion of  the  play  itself.  Generally  it  will  aim  to  interest  a 
busy  and  critical  manager  or  actor,  in  the  hope  of  arousing 
his  desire  to  read  the  completed  play.  The  theories  in 
this  regard  seem  to  vary.  One  producer  refuses  to  read  a 
play  by  an  unknown  author  until  a  scenario  has  been 
submitted;  another  will  perhaps  return  the  scenario  with 
a  statement  to  the  effect  that,  while  it  appears  interest- 


SCENARIO  MAKING  AND  MECHANICAL  PROCESSES     205 

ing,  one  can  form  no  satisfactory  estimate  without  a  con- 
sideration of  the  entire  play.  Perhaps  the  only  safe 
policy  is  to  submit  both  play  and  scenario,  and  let  the 
reader  take  his  choice. 

At  all  events,  this  finished  outline  of  a  finished  play 
requires  care  in  its  construction,  if  it  is  to  interest  and 
satisfy.  To  begin  with,  it  must  be  brief.  That  means 
that  the  writer  will  have  to  exercise  his  sense  of  proportion 
in  laying  out  his  account  of  characters  and  incidents.  He 
will  have  to  blue-pencil  the  non-essential  in  all  ruthless- 
ness.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  he  must  avoid  a  sketchy 
summary  which  produces  vagueness  and  uncertainty  in 
the  reader.  Moreover,  really  good  ideas  are  valuable  in 
the  world  of  the  theatre.  Stated  baldly  in  brief  scenario 
form,  they  are  perhaps  more  at  the  mercy  of  the  unscrupu- 
lous than  when  they  have  been  worked  up  into  finished 
plays,  or  at  least  into  complete  outlines  which  represent 
plays  written  and  capable  of  copyright. 

Above  all,  the  scenario  should  be  dramatic.  Upon  the 
manner  in  which  one  selects  and  emphasizes  in  the  outline 
the  significant  moments  of  one's  play  will  its  general 
quality  be  judged. 

When  a  play  has  been  finally  completed  to  the  full  satis- 
faction of  the  author  and,  so  far  as  possible,  has  had  such 
reliable  criticism  as  he  may  have  been  able  to  obtain,  it  is 
then  put  in  form  for  submission  to  producers  and  for 
copyright.  Of  course,  it  is  typewritten  in  duplicate. 
Three  or  even  more  carbon  copies,  in  addition  to  the 
original,  can  readily  be  made.  The  size  of  manuscript 
sheets  should  be  about  eight  by  ten  and  a  half,  or  perhaps 


206  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

eight  and  a  half  by  eleven  inches.  The  first  copy  should, 
if  possible,  be  typed  in  two  colors:  all  the  dialogue  should 
be,  preferably,  in  blue  or  purple;  all  the  stage  directions, 
in  red.  In  the  carbon  copies  the  stage  directions  should 
be  underscored  with  red  ink.  Do  not  use  a  "copying 
ribbon"  on  the  typewriter — the  script  smudges  too 
easily  and  annoyingly  stains  the  fingers  of  the  reader. 

Stage  Directions 

There  are  various  plans  for  arranging  directions  and 
dialogue  on  the  typewritten  page.  Most  writers  place  the 
name  of  each  character  in  the  center  of  the  line  above  his 
speech.  Any  direction  concerning  the  speech  is  then 
placed  in  parenthesis  on  the  line  following.  Stage  direc- 
tions, by  the  way — except  perhaps  the  description  of  the 
setting  at  the  beginning  of  the  scene — should  all  be 
enclosed  in  parentheses. 

A  few  writers  adopt  the  plan  of  placing  the  name  of  the 
character,  followed  by  any  required  direction,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  first  line  of  his  speech.  Name  and 
direction  are  either  typed  or  underscored  in  red;  the 
speech,  in  purple,  blue,  black,  or  some  other  contrasting 
color. 

Longer  stage  directions  than  the  mere  phrase  that  char- 
acterizes a  single  speech  are  generally  arranged  in  a  sort  of 
reversed  paragraph,  all  the  lines  after  the  first,  instead  of 
the  first,  being  indented,  and  typed  or  underscored  in  red. 
The  left-hand  margin  for  stage  directions  should  be  placed 
an  inch  or  more  to  the  right  of  the  ordinary  type-margin. 
The  dialogue  should  be  double  spaced;  but  single  spacing 


208  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

for  the  stage  directions  may  serve  as  an  additional  means 
of  convenient  contrast.  Appended  to  this  volume  will  be 
found  fac-simile  pages  of  play  manuscript  that  will  illus- 
trate the  most  common  usage. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  arrangement  of  the 
manuscript  is  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader.  In  these  days 
of  multitudinous  scripts  and  leisureless  producers,  many  a 
play  probably  fails  of  a  hearing  because  of  a  disorderly  or 
confusing  appearance. 

Each  act  of  a  play  should  be  preceded  by  a  description 
and  a  diagram  of  the  setting.  Both  should  be  complete 
yet  simple.  The  description  notes  the  details  of  the  mise 
en  scene  and  their  relative  locations.  The  diagram  still 
more  definitely  places  them,  indicating  walls,  doors, 
windows,  entrances,  and  exterior  and  interior  surroundings 
of  every  sort.  The  best  usage  requires  that  the  name  of 
each  object  be  written  on  or  beside  the  representation  of 
the  object  in  the  diagram. 

The  present-day  movement  is  toward  a  simplification  of 
stage  terminology.  The  old  manner  of  describing  entrances 
as  "Right  first,"  "Right  third,"  or  "Left  upper" — except 
for  generally  locating  positions  in  exteriors — has  passed 
with  the  passing  of  the  old-fashioned  wing-and-groove 
settings.  Nowadays  interiors  are  completely  boxed  in, 
the  side  walls  being  as  solid,  the  side  doors  and  windows 
as  "practicable,"  as  the  rear  ones,  with  usually  a  solid 
ceiling  in  place  of  the  unrealistic  "borders"  of  other  days. 
The  stage,  however,  still  retains  its  general  divisions, 
Right,  Left,  and  Center,  customarily  designated  as  R,  L, 
and  C.  "Right"  and  "Left"  on  the  stage  are,  of  course, 


SCENARIO  MAKING  AND  MECHANICAL  PROCESSES     209 

the  actor's  right  and  left  as  he  faces  the  audience.  More- 
over, the  terms  "up  stage"  and  "down  stage"  are  still 
employed  to  indicate  locations  toward  the  rear  and  toward 
the  front  of  the  stage  respectively.  Similarly,  one  speaks 
of  a  chair  as  being  "above"  a  table;  though  there  is  no 
earthly  reason  why  "behind"  should  not  be  equally 
expressive — only,  it  is  not  used. 

However,  an  extensive  knowledge  of  stage  terminology 
is  not  actually  requisite  to  the  preparation  of  play  manu- 
scripts. What  is  essential  is  that  the  author  should 
thoroughly  know  the  capabilities  of  the  stage  for  producing 
or  heightening  the  effects  at  which  he  aims.  Flies,  rigging- 
loft,  dock,  stage-cloth,  tormentors,  traps,  drops,  flats, 
set-pieces,  wood-cuts,  runs,  bunch-lights,  dimmers, 
foots,  strips,  olivettes,  flood  lights,  spotlights,  stage 
pockets,  gridiron,  lines,  battens,  tabs,  jogs,  etc.,  etc.,  are 
all  characteristic  and  interesting  terms;  but,  for  the  most 
part,  they  may  be  left  to  the  players,  more  especially  to 
the  manager  and  the  stage  hands.  At  all  events,  the 
entire  special  terminology  of  the  theatre  can  be  learned 
by  any  ordinary  mind  with  a  half-hour's  application. 
And  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  schools  of  acting  and  of 
playwriting  sometimes  detail  the  subject  in  their  cata- 
logues as  though  it  were  one  of  the  full  courses  of  instruc- 
tion. 

In  writing  the  stage  directions,  it  is  customary  to  give 
at  the  first  entrance  of  each  character  a  brief  description 
of  his  personal  appearance  and  dress.  This  usually 
suffices  for  the  entire  play  unless  some  marked  change  in 
an  individual  is  to  be  indicated.  Napoleon  in  the  first 


210  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

act  of  "Madame  Sans-Gene"  is,  naturally,  a  very  differ- 
ent-looking person  from  Napoleon  in  the  third  act. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  play  there  should  be  prefixed 
for  convenient  reference  a  list  of  the  dramatis  per s ones. 
The  growing  and  rational  usage  is  to  name  the  characters 
in  the  order  of  their  appearance.  This  list  is,  of  course, 
to  be  printed  in  the  programme.  And  it  should  include 
no  more  than  the  names  of  the  personages,  without 
explanation  other  than  an  occasional  descriptive  word. 
"Manson,  a  butler"  and  "William,  his  son"  would 
perhaps  not  be  out  of  place;  but  any  detailed  description 
or  explanation  here  of  a  character,  his  business,  or  his 
relations  to  other  characters,  is  nowadays  interpreted  as 
a  confession  that  the  play  itself  does  not  succeed  in  con- 
veying the  necessary  information  as  it  should.  In  fact, 
the  stage  directions  in  the  version  of  the  play  intended  for 
the  purposes  of  theatrical  production  should  usually  con- 
fine themselves,  with  regard  to  the  characters,  to  the 
simplest  essential  account  of  the  appearance  and  conduct 
of  each  personage.  Monsieur  Rostand  may  embalm  his 
stage  directions  in  the  form  of  sonnets,  but  he  does  it,  of 
course,  with  an  eye  on  the  reader  of  his  play,  not  on  the 
producer.  When  the  professed  naturalistic  playwright 
adopts  a  similar  custom,  even  though  he  write  in  prose, 
he  is  certainly  guilty  of  an  inconsistency. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

i.  Revise  the  outline  asked  for  in  Exercise  6,  Chapter 
XVI,  in  accordance  with  the  instructions  of  this  chapter. 


SCENARIO   MAKING   AND   MECHANICAL   PROCESSES        211 

2.  For  exercise,  prepare  a  scenario  of  any  modern  play 
whose  full  text  is  available. 

3.  Referring  to  Exercise  7,  Chapter  XVI,  proceed  with 
the  writing  of  your  long  play.    When  you  have  finally 
done  this  work  to  the  best  of  your  ability,  you  should 
revise  painstakingly  according  to  the  suggestions  in  the 
next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


SELF-CRITICISM 

Others  may  tell  him  whether  his  work  is  good  or  bad;  but 
only  the  author  himself  is  in  a  position  to  know  just  what  he  was 
trying  to  do  and  how  far  short  he  has  fallen  of  doing  it.  ... 
Suppose,  for  instance,  that  an  author's  trouble  is  plot  construc- 
tion. It  may  be  easy  to  tell  him  where  his  plot  is  wrong  and 
explain  to  him  the  principle  that  he  has  violated.  But  if  he  is 
to  obtain  any  real  and  lasting  profit,  he  must  find  out  for  him- 
self how  to  set  the  trouble  right.  Of  course,  you  might  con- 
struct the  plot  for  him — but  then  it  would  be  your  plot  and  not 
his;  you  would  be,  not  his  teacher,  but  his  collaborator;  and 
his  working  out  of  your  plot  would  almost  surely  result  in  bad 
work. — FREDERIC  TABER  COOPER,  The  Craftsmanship  of  Writing. 

The  paramount  danger  is  haste,  with  its  resultant  careless- 
ness. .  .  .  To  exhibit  the  superficial  aspects  of  a  situation,  to 
invent  melodramatic  incidents  that  obscure  the  solution,  and 
to  express  half-baked  views  in  place  of  thoughtful  convictions, 
if  indeed  the  duty  of  thinking  out  the  problem  be  not  dodged 
entirely,  is  so  often  quite  sufficient  to  win  applause  and  pelf, 
that  it  is  perhaps  a  counsel  of  perfection  to  ask  our  playmakers, 
in  the  present  infancy  of  their  art,  to  do  more.  And  yet,  more 
they  must  do,  in  time,  if  our  theatre  is  to  be  reckoned  as  a  national 
asset;  the  appeal  to  history  settles  that. — RICHARD  BURTON,  The 
New  American  Drama. 

Before  the  dramatist  takes  his  trusty  typewriter  in 
hand  or — if  he  be  so  opulent — turns  his  play  over  to  the 
typist,  let  him  submit  it  to  the  most  patient  and  searching 
process  of  criticism,  beginning  with  the  first  fundamentals 
and  not  ending  till  he  has  taken  into  account  the  last 


SELF-CRITICISM  213 

details.  Let  him  read  his  work  carefully,  read  it  aloud  for 
the  detection  of  cacophony  and  other  faults  still  more 
vital.  Preferably,  first  of  all,  he  should  lay  the  manuscript 
away  for  several  months  and  try  to  forget  it.  Then  he 
should  assume  and  cultivate  the  most  detached  and 
impersonal  attitude  possible,  putting  himself  imaginatively 
in  the  place  not  only  of  the  average  playgoer,  but  also  of 
the  manager  and  the  actor. 

Testing  the  Amount  of  Dramatic  Material 

The  fundamental  question  that  he  should  relentlessly 
ask  concerning  his  work  is,  Is  this  drama?  Or  perhaps 
we  should  word  it,  How  much  of  this  is  drama,  and  how 
much  merely  dialogue,  narrative,  descriptive,  didactic? 
Too  often  a  few  bright  lines  and  interesting  situations  that 
could  readily  be  condensed  into  a  vaudeville  sketch  are 
spread  out  thin  over  the  surface  of  a  whole  evening's 
performance.  Mr.  George  M.  Cohan's  "Broadway  Jones" 
occupies  four  acts  when  it  might  as  well  have  been  con- 
fined to  three.  Mr.  A.  E.  W.  Mason's  play,  "Green 
Stockings,"  indeed,  was  thus  condensed  after  its  first 
production  and  for  some  time  appeared  in  three  acts 
while  its  original  "paper"  advertised  it  as  "a  four-act 
comedy." 

Naturally,  few  plays  are  drama  from  the  very  start. 
The  exigencies  of  exposition  usually  require  a  preliminary 
narrative  dialogue.  Sometimes  this  extends  throughout 
the  entire  first  act.  Too  often  it  never  ceases  till  the 
final  curtain.  Purely  expository  beginnings  should  be 
disguised  by  means  of  interesting  movement,  manoeuvres, 


214  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

and  characterization.  In  other  words,  the  exposition 
should  be  contrived  so  as  to  hold  the  attention  of  the  spec- 
tator with  the  least  possible,  if  any,  voluntary  effort  on 
his  part.  It  has  previously  been  pointed  out  that  the 
exposition  may  often  be  sprinkled  along  in  small  doses 
throughout  the  first  act,  or  even  throughout  the  entire 
play,  instead  of  being  massed  at  the  beginning. 

Testing  the  Interest 

In  reviewing  his  completed  work,  the  playwright  should 
be  able  to  determine  at  exactly  what  point  the  emotional 
interest  commences.  And,  if  this  point  be  long  delayed, 
he  should  labor  to  condense  what  precedes  it,  to  shift  the 
order  of  revelation,  and  by  all  available  means  to  main- 
tain attention  from  the  beginning  of  his  play. 

Where  does  emotional — that  is,  dramatic — interest 
begin?  Briefly,  it  starts  with  the  struggle  that  underlies 
the  play.  The  moment  we  see  persons  actually  engage 
in  a  conflict,  with  each  other,  with  society,  with  cir- 
cumstances, with  fate,  with  themselves — in  short,  with 
any  conceivable  antagonist — that  moment,  being  human, 
we  are  inspired  with  a  feeling  of  suspense  as  to  the  out- 
come of  the  fight.  We  are  curious  as  to  who  shall  win,  and 
— meanwhile — as  to  how  the  battle  will  be  fought.  It 
behooves  the  dramatist,  therefore,  to  dispense  with  use- 
less preliminaries  and  let  his  antagonists  come  to  the 
grapple  with  the  least  possible  delay. 

Having  determined  the  matter  of  the  dramatic  start, 
the  self-criticising  playwright  will  proceed  to  make 
certain  that  he  has  maintained  the  initial  interest  he  has 


SELF-CRITICISM  21$ 

aroused.  It  is  distinctly  his  business  not  to  allow  this 
emotional  curiosity  to  lag.  In  fact,  it  is  distinctly  his 
business  to  be  constantly  heightening  it  toward  his  climax. 
One  of  the  easiest  faults  to  commit  in  play- writing  is  that 
of  continually  raising  and  dropping  the  tension  from 
situation  to  situation,  that  is,  of  presenting  a  series  of 
incidents,  each  dramatic  in  itself  but  not  carrying  over  the 
final  interest  to  what  follows  and  proceeding  ever  up  and 
up  on  higher  levels  to  the  summit.  The  prognosis  for  this 
broken-backed  structure  is  usually  most  unfavorable.  It 
should  be  avoided  from  the  scenario  stage.  In  any  event, 
it  should  be  carefully  sought  out  in  the  final  self-criticism 
and,  when  found,  eliminated  even  at  the  cost  of  an  entire 
recasting  and  rewriting  of  the  play. 

This  process  of  self-criticism  further  includes  a  deter- 
mination as  to  whether  the  structure  itself  is  actually 
climacteric — always  excepting  plotless  photography — and 
as  to  whether  the  climax — indeed,  the  plot  in  general — is 
illustrative  of  the  theme.  Then  comes  the  question  of  the 
denouement.  It  is  perhaps  a  natural  tendency  to  con- 
struct plays  so  that  the  interest  both  culminates  and  con- 
cludes at  the  same  moment.  In  such  a  case,  however,  an 
appended  act  merely  to  tell  us  that  They  were  married  and 
lived  happily  ever  after,  or  that,  having  been  definitely 
conquered,  He  gave  up  the  struggle,  will  be  a  matter  of 
supererogation.  Final  self-criticism  must  determine 
whether  a  sufficiently  important  part  of  the  story  has  been 
left  to  be  told  in  the  last  act.  In  fact,  every  act  but  the 
last  should  be  concluded  in  such  a  way  as  to  carry  the 
spectator's  interest  over  into  what  is  to  follow.  Where 


2l6  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF   PLAY  WRITING 

this  procedure  is  found  to  have  been  neglected,  recasting 
is  again  obligatory. 

Testing  the  Characterization 

When  these  matters  of  story  have  been  disposed  of — 
or,  rather,  simultaneously  with  the  process — the  charac- 
terization and  its  relation  to  the  plot  must  be  painstakingly 
scrutinized.  It  is  assumed  that  from  the  beginning  every 
effort  has  been  made  to  avoid  the  conventional.  The 
playwright  has  modelled  upon  real  life  as  he  knows  it, 
rather  than  upon  the  artificialities  traditional  to  the 
theatre  and  fiction  generally.  It  is  more  than  possible, 
however,  that,  in  the  haste  of  composition,  he  has  admitted 
to  his  work  defects  of  probability  and  complete  motiva- 
tion. He  has  made  A,  who  is  ordinarily  a  hard-headed, 
shrewd  man  of  affairs,  incredibly  commit  some  careless- 
ness or  omit  some  caution.  In  other  words,  everything  has 
not  always  been  taken  into  consideration  when  a  char- 
acter has  been  made  to  say  or  do  things.  With  the  final 
self-criticism  comes  the  playwright's  opportunity  to 
remedy  any  such  possible  oversights,  and  so  to  avoid  the 
condemnation  that  is  sure  to  descend  upon  even  the  most 
trivial  improbabilities  of  conduct  among  his  dramatis 
persona.  Indeed,  the  more  accurate  and  thorough  the 
characterization,  the  more  glaring  will  be  the  smallest 
inconsistency. 

There  must  be,  then,  every  attention  given  to  such 
matters  of  detail.  The  entrances  and  exits  of  the  char- 
acters, for  example,  must  be  carefully,  though  not  obtru- 
sively, motivated.  It  is  repeatedly  necessary  to  get  this  or 


SELF-CRITICISM  2 17 

that  person  on  or  off  the  stage;  and  in  our  day  their 
comings  and  goings  may  not  simply  happen  arbitrarily. 
In  "As  a  Man  Thinks,"  for  example,  Dr.  Seelig  comes 
home  at  tea-time  and  finds  his  daughter  alone  in  the 
drawing-room.  Several  friends  have  been  invited  in — 
they  are  already  late — and  so  we  are  prepared  for  their 
corning  presently.  Mrs.  Clayton  calls  to  speak  with  the 
doctor  professionally;  this  gets  her  into  the  house;  and 
then,  in  order  that  Vedah  and  her  father  may  continue 
their  confidential  expository  chat  a  little  longer,  Mrs. 
Clayton's  desire  to  see  Mrs.  Seelig,  who  is  upstairs,  gets 
the  former  off  the  stage  again.  Later,  to  leave  Vedah  and 
Burrill  alone  together — after  the  apparently  casual,  but 
of  course  carefully  calculated  announcement  by  her 
father  of  her  engagement  to  De  Lota — Dr.  Seelig  carries 
the  two  vases  into  the  library.  And,  a  short  time  after- 
ward— to  give  De  Lota  and  Elinor  an  opportunity  for  con- 
fidential dialogue — Dr.  Seelig  calls  to  Vedah  and  Burrill 
to  come  to  him  in  the  library. 

So  it  goes.  People  do  not  drop  in  by  chance  or  disappear 
without  reason:  every  movement  is  rationalized — made 
the  effect  of  an  obvious,  though  never  obtrusive  cause. 

Testing  the  Play  for  Action 

And  always  what  must  be  borne  steadily  in  mind  is  the 
importance  of  action.  A  play  is  a  play,  and  not  merely  a 
narrative,  by  virtue  of  this  element  alone.  You  have  a 
theme:  it  must  be  shown  in  action.  You  have  a  story:  it 
must  be  related  in  action.  You  have  characters:  they 
must  be  portrayed  in  action.  Whatever  there  is  in  your 


2l8  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

drama  that  is  worth  while  must  be  illustrated  concretely 
by  things  done,  and  not  merely  said. 

For  an  example  consider  Mr.  Rudolf  Besier's  "Don" 
in  contrast  with  Mr.  George  Bernard  Shaw's  "Fanny's 
First  Play."  At  bottom,  the  theme  of  both  is  the  same: 
the  helplessness  of  middle-class  respectability  in  the  face 
of  the  unconventional.  But  "Don"  illustrates  this 
problem  in  terms  of  concrete  action,  while  the  other  piece 
presents  it  chiefly  in  the  form  of  debate.  In  fact,  with 
Mr.  Shaw  there  is  so  much  scintillant  dialogue  that  there 
is  no  time  left  for  the  doing  of  things.  When  we  eliminate 
this  verbal  felicity  and  substitute  "the  great  realities  of 
our  modern  life — meaning,  apparently,"  as  Mr.  William 
Winter  puts  it,  "photographs  of  the  coal-scuttle,  and 
other  such  tremendous  facts  of  actual,  everyday  exist- 
ence," we  no  longer  draw  the  playgoer's  attention  away 
from  the  fundamental  lack  of  action.  Indeed,  "Fanny's 
First  Play,"  as  a  play,  was  only  what  might  have  been 
expected  of  so  youthful  an  amateur  as  Fanny,  and  conse- 
quently had  to  be  eked  out  not  only  with  Shavian  girdings  at 
middle-class  morality,  but  also  with  the  resurrected  device 
of  a  satirical  prologue  and  epilogue  forestalling  the  critics.1 

Testing  the  Play  for  Finish 

Finally,  there  will  remain  in  this  process  of  self-criticism, 
the  ultimate  condensation  and  polishing  of  the  dialogue, 

1  Much  the  same  sort  of  comparison  might  profitably  be  made 
between  Mr.  Shaw's  "Pygmalion"  and  Mr.  Hubert  Henry 
Davies's  "Outcast."  In  the  matter  of  structure,  however, 
"Don"  surpasses  "Outcast,"  and  "Pygmalion"  is  better  than 
"Fanny's  First  Play." 


SELF-CRITICISM  2 1 9 

and  even  of  the  stage  directions.  It  seems  almost  endlessly 
possible  to  eliminate  superfluous  words  and  phrases  and 
to  improve  diction  and  form.  Of  course,  all  must  be  done 
with  an  eye  single — in  the  realistic  drama — to  that  com- 
pact and  selective  kind  of  speech  which  yet  gives  the  illu- 
sion of  the  ordinary. 

Above  all,  the  dialogue  must  be  kept  consistent  with 
the  characterization;  and  the  last  test,  again,  will  deter- 
mine whether  anybody  has  been  made  to  say  what  he 
would  not  probably  have  said  hi  real  life. 

After  everything  possible  seems  to  have  been  done  by 
way  of  improvement,  a  final  reading  aloud  will  invariably 
discover  unguessed  imperfections.  In  fact,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  any  playwright  who  types  his  own  manuscripts 
ever  does  so  without  numerous  pauses  to  reconstruct  a 
b'ne  or  to  delete  a  phrase. 

Important  General  Tests 

There  are,  of  course,  many  special  considerations  other 
than  those  mentioned  that  must  enter  into  the  process  of 
final  self-criticism.  Authors  will  perhaps  ask  themselves 
whether  they  have  provided  the  sort  of  leading  role  that 
will  appeal  to  the  particular  player  or  manager  that  it  is 
hoped  to  interest;  whether  opportunity  has  been  pro- 
vided for  necessary  changes  of  costume;  whether  the 
scenes  and  the  time-scheme  have  been  devised  so  as  to 
give  occasion  for  a  desirable  sartorial  display  in  certain 
types  of  drama;  whether  general  ease  and  inexpensiveness 
of  production  have  been  made  possible — in  fact,  scores  of 
eminently  practical  considerations  will  come  to  mind. 


220  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

There  is  the  important  matter  of  the  unity  of  tone, 
since  plays,  as  has  been  seen,  occasionally  fail  through  a 
shifting  viewpoint  that  fatally  confuses  the  spectator. 
Then  there  is  the  whole  problem  of  preparation,  of  advance 
information  and  suggestion  that  arouses  suspense  and 
makes  intelligible  what  occurs  later.  And  finally,  there 
is  the  question  of  repetition  and  the  rigid  deletion  of  what 
has  perchance  been  twice  told  to  no  special  advantage. 

Digest  of  Dramatic  Rules 

Perhaps  the  beginner  will  be  stimulated  by  some  of  the 
various  collections  of  miscellaneous  rules  for  dramatic 
composition. 

He  will  at  least  remember  Dumas'  "Let  your  first  act 
be  clear,  your  last  act  brief,  and  the  whole  interesting," 
and  Wilkie  Collins's  famous  "Make  'em  laugh;  make 
'em  weep;  make  'em  wait."  For  the  rest,  here  are  some 
fragments  of  advice  from  many  sources,  which  the  ama- 
teur dramatist  may  take  for  what  they  are  worth: 

1.  Get  a  good,  simple  story. 

2.  Let  it  be  human  and  appeal  to  all  kinds  of  people, 
the  gallery  as  well  as  the  stalls. 

3.  Do    not    let    too    many    important    things    have 
"happened"  before  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 

4.  Center  your  interest  on  one  or  two  people. 

5.  The  fewer  characters  the  better. 

6.  The  fewer  settings  the  better. 

7.  Do  not  change  your  scene  during  an  act. 

8.  Do  not  have  more  than  four  acts. 


SELF-CRITICISM  221 

9.  Let  there  be  between  eighteen  and  thirty-five  type- 
written pages  to  the  act. 

10.  Mere  topics  of  the  hour  are  dangerous  themes, 
since  by  the  time  plays  are  read  and  produced  their 
subject-matter  is  likely  to  be  stale.     Themes  universal 
and  eternal,  yet  timely,  are  the  ones  that  are  most  worth 
while. 

n.    To-day  is  the  best  time  to  write  about;  where  you 
live,  the  likeliest  place. 

12.  Read  the  master  playwrights  of  to-day: — Suder- 
mann,  Pinero,  Thomas,  Hervieu,  Rostand — these  will  do 
to  start  with. 

13.  Technique — as  in  all  the  arts — must  be  mastered 
and  forgotten.     It  must  be  at  the  finger-tips,  like  the 
mechanics  of  piano-playing. 

14.  "The  exit  of  each  character  must  bear  the  same 
relation  to  him  that  the  curtain  bears  to  the  plot.    Every 
time  a  man  leaves  the  stage,  the  audience  should  wonder 
what  he  is  going  to  do  and  what  effect  it  will  have  on  his 
next  appearance." 

15.  See  that  the  play  is  always  moving  straight  toward 
its  goal:  divagation  is  usually  death. 

16.  Plays  that  are  "enlarged  fifth  acts,"— that  is, 
that  present  only  the  culminating  scenes  of  the  story — 
are  usually  the  swiftest  and  the  most  compact. 

17.  Express  as  much  as  possible  in  pantomime,  gesture, 
and  facial  play:  by  so  doing  you  take  the  audience  into 
collaboration  and  thus  tickle  its  vanity.     It  is  worth 
while  to  develop  the  significant  "business"  for  the  player. 


222  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

1 8.  If  it  is  consistent  with  story  and  characters,  give 
the  women  opportunities  to  dress — and  more  than  once. 

19.  Remember  that  interior  settings  are  usually  less 
expensive  than  exteriors.    Moreover,  entrances  and  exits 
are  more  clear-cut,  definite,  and  effective  in  interiors. 

20.  Work  to  bring  about  a  logical  conclusion  dimly 
foreseen  and  ardently  desired,  by  surprising  yet  thor- 
oughly convincing  means. 

21.  "The    essence    of    the    play's    entertainment    is 
surprise — the  pleasant  shock  which  breaks  the  crust  of 
habitual  thought  in  which  each  spectator  is  imprisoned 
and  releases  him  into  a  new  and  more  spacious  world." 

22.  Base  all  your  work    ultimately  upon  Spencer's 
principle  of  the  economy  of  attention. 

23.  Strive  to  people  situation  with  character  and  to 
make  situation  significant  as  an  opportunity  for  character 
to   express   itself.     Character   should   always   dominate 
situation.    Character  is  destiny. 

24.  Avoid  the  didactic: — a  play  should  point  its  own 
moral  without  the  aid  of  a  raisonneur. 

25.  Settings  should  be  characteristic  and  suggestive  of 
the  persons  and  the  theme  of  the  play.    The  first  setting 
ought,  in  some  measure,  to  strike  the  keynote. 

26.  Ponder  Ibsen's  avowed  purpose  in  play- writing: — 
to  evoke  "the  sensation  of  having  lived  through  a  passage 
of  actual  life." 

27.  Remember  proportion:  the  minor,  however  inter- 
esting per  se,  is  pernicious  when  it  distracts  attention  from 
the  major  matter. 


SELF-CRITICISM  223 

28.  "Plays  aren't  written;   they're  rewritten."    "It's 
a  wise  author  that  knows  his  own  play  on  its  first  night." 

29.  "In  the  matter  of  local  color,  of  atmosphere,  the 
playwright  cannot  spend  too  much  pains.    He  must  be 
effective  in  all  these  superficial  things." 

30.  The  first  rule  of  the  stage,  as  of  oratory,  is — to 
paraphrase    Danton — De    faction,    encore    de    Faction, 
toujours  de  Vaction.    The  constant  desire  of  the  spectator 
is  to  see  something  happen. 

"These  few  precepts"  it  will  hardly  be  necessary  to 
analyze  or  discuss.  For  the  most  part,  they  are  repetitive 
of  what  has  already,  and  more  than  once,  been  counselled 
in  detail.  Some  of  them,  of  course,  merely  repeat  each 
other.  Others  challenge  instant  antagonism.  They  are 
drawn,  as  was  said,  from  various  sources  and  are  offered 
simply  with  the  thought  that,  as  they  stand,  they  may 
stimulate  helpful  reflection. 

Finally,  perhaps  the  most  vital  rule  that  could  be 
phrased  would  be  Avoid  haste.  Sir  Arthur  Wing  Pinero 
declares  that  one  play  a  year  is  enough.  Monsieur  Edmond 
Rostand  takes  as  long  as  nine  years — at  least  in  the  case 
of  "Chantecler."  Whatever  else  he  produces,  we  may  be 
sure,  will  not  lack  maturest  consideration.  Shakespeare 
wrote  his  three  dozen  dramas,  in  addition  to  his  other 
works,  in  about  twenty-five  years. 

"  'Stop  Thief,'  "  says  Mr.  George  M.  Cohan,1  "was 
one  of  the  most  logical,  smooth-running  farces  ever  pro- 
duced on  any  stage.  Moore  rewrote  it  six  times  before  it 

1  In  the  Green  Book  Magazine,  April,  1915. 


224  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

was  approved  by  us.  He  must  have  written  at  least  five 
entirely  new  plays  before  we  accepted  'Stop  Thief;'  but 
he  is  one  of  the  few  playwrights  who  work  on  the  theory 
that  the  other  fellow  is  likely  to  have  some  ideas,  and  that 
the  author  does  not  know  everything.  He  is  willing  to 
take  advice  and  suggestions — and  for  that  reason,  if  for 
no  other,  I  believe  he  will  prove  a  greater  success,  and 
eventually  become  a  greater  craftsman,  than  those  who 
will  not. 

"Reizenstein  threw  away — not  literally,  of  course — the 
first  manuscript  of  'On  Trial.'  ...  I  told  Reizenstein 
to  write  an  entirely  different  story  into  his  scenes,  and  in 
three  or  four  weeks  he  came  back  with  the  play  as  it  was 
later  produced.  .  .  .  Had  Reizenstein  been  an  older  and 
accepted  playwright,  he  might  have  turned  up  his  nose 
when  we  asked  him  to  rewrite  what  some  of  them  choose 
to  call  their 'soul's  blood.'  .  .  .  McHugh  literally  ripped 
the  manuscript  [of  "Officer  666"]  to  pieces,  changing  it 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  and  then  changing  it  again, 
until  the  play  as  produced  would  never  have  been  recog- 
nized as  the  original." 

Of  course,  many  playwrights  have  won  success  while 
working  at  incredibly  high  speed.  "La  Dame  aux  Came- 
lias  was  composed  in  eight  days,  to  anticipate  a  pirated 
version  of  the  novel  from  which  it  was  taken.  Dion  Bouci- 
cault  wrote  four  hundred  plays  in  fifty  years,  one  piece 
having  been  composed  in  forty-eight  hours.  Lope  de 
Vega  wrote  dramas  at  the  rate  of  forty-four  a  year  until 
he  had  become  responsible  for  more  than  two  thousand 
titles. 


SELF-CRITICISM  22$ 

On  the  other  hand,  when  Mr.  Edward  Sheldon  produces 
three  plays  in  a  single  season,  and  only  one  of  them  is 
really  worth  while,  the  fact  appears  significant.  Mr. 
Augustus  Thomas,  too,  apparently  suffers  now  and  then 
by  haste,  as  "Mere  Man"  and  "The  Model,"  to  say 
nothing  of  a  few  other  plays,  would  seem  to  indicate; 
and  the  late  Clyde  Fitch  gave  the  impression  of  owing 
most  of  his  deficiencies  to  the  speed  with  which  he  turned 
out  his  frequently  inconsequential  trifles  of  entertainment. 
After  all,  it  is  much  easier  to  scribble  off  new  pieces  at 
white  heat  than  it  is  to  subject  a  single  drama  to  the  long 
and  relentless  pressure  of  hard  thinking  that  such  an 
enterprise  deserves  and  requires.  As  for  success,  one 
good  play  will  certainly  land  its  author  high  above  what 
he  could  gain  from  a  dozen  comparative  failures. 

QUESTIONS  AND  EXERCISES 

1.  Apply  the  tests  of  this  chapter  to  the  text  of  some 
modern  play.    What  are  your  conclusions,  specifically? 

2.  Frankly  say  what  defects  you  find  in  your  own 
manuscripts,  after  self-criticism. 

3.  Indicate  which  points  you  think  may  be  amended, 
and  how. 


CHAPTER  XX 


PLACING    THE    PLAY 

Good  plays  are  always  wanted,  and  the  anxiety  to  get  hold  of 
them  is  very  great,  the  multiplicity  of  theatres  increasing  the 
demand.  But  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that  a  busy  and  harassed 
manager  is  not  in  a  position  to  give  serious  thought  to  the 
enormous  mass  of  written  or  printed  matter  that  is  being  per- 
petually brought  under  his  notice?  ...  It  is  a  marvel  that 
managers  are  as  patient  as  they  are,  when  one  thinks  of  the 
absolute  rubbish  that  is  constantly  asking  their  suffrages.  .  .  . 
Going  "through  the  mill"  is  not  a  pleasant  operation,  but  it  is 
the  only  way  to  get  associated  with  the  grist. — FRANK  ARCHER, 
How  to  Write  a  Good  Play. 

Don't  ever  send  in  a  play  without  first  having  obtained  permis- 
sion to  do  so.  Don't,  when  it  is  in,  worry  the  manager  about  it 
too  soon  or  too  often.  Don't  write  to  the  papers  about  your 
ill-treatment.  ...  Do  not  argue  with  managers,  but  accept 
their  decisions,  and  appear  to  be  impressed  with,  and  grateful 
for,  their  views.  ...  Be  guided  by  common  sense  in  your 
tactics.  Do  not  send  drawing-room  comedy  to  the  Adelphi,  and 
sensational  melodrama  to  Terry's.  Do  not  try  to  talk  Mr.  Toole 
over  into  playing  a  heavy,  emotional  drama,  because  you  will 
only  be  wasting  your  own  valuable  time,  to  say  nothing  of  that 
versatile  comedian's.  .  .  .  Send  one-part  plays  to  the  actors 
or  actresses  that  they  would  best  suit.  .  .  .  Mind,  however, 
that  the  play  is  a  one-part  play;  actors  do  not  relish  rivalry. 
And  take  care  that  the  part  suits  your  man  all  through. — Play- 
writing:  a  Handbook  for  Would-be  Dramatic  Authors  (By  "A 
Dramatist.") 

And  after  you  have  performed  the  Herculean  labors 
involved  in  the  writing,  criticising,  revising,  and  copying 


PLACING  THE   PLAY  22  f 

of  your  play,  you  find  that  your  work  has  only  just  begun! 
Next  you  have  to  consider  the  task  of  getting  the  play 
"placed." 

For  achieving  this  highly  desirable  consummation — 
since  "no  man  is  a  recognized  dramatist  till  he  is  pro- 
duced"— there  are  various  procedures.  You  may  mail 
your  play  to  a  manager,  to  a  "star,"  or  to  a  play  agent; 
or  you  may  carry  the  manuscript  in  person. 

What  happens  to  plays  mailed  or  expressed  to  managers? 

That  depends.  Write  to  the  average  producer,  and  he 
will  reply  that,  if  you  will  send  him  your  play,  he  will  read 
it  as  soon  as  possible.  If  you  call  on  the  manager  yourself 
— and  succeed  in  seeing  him — he  is  likely  to  assure  you  of 
just  that  much.  One  producer  frankly  asserts  that,  since 
not  one  play  out  of  a  thousand  ordinarily  received  is  worth 
looking  into,  he  is  much  too  busy  a  man  to  read  plays 
against  such  odds.  To  attract  his  attention  the  author 
must  have  first  gained  the  interest  of  some  noted  actor,  or 
must  submit  a  record  of  some  successful  minor  production. 

Most  theatrical  firms  employ  play-readers,  who  perhaps 
occasionally  recommend  promising  manuscripts  for  pro- 
duction. It  is  quite  true,  however,  that  though,  according 
to  recurrent  newspaper  interviews,  most  managers  are 
actually  on  the  lookout  for  undiscovered  dramatists,  they 
often  seem  unwilling  to  seek  these  elusive  wheat-grains  in 
the  oceans  of  chaff  which  flow  in  via  the  post  office. 

Copyrighting  the  Play 

Playwrights  are  frequently  warned  in  more  or  less  direct 
language  that  in  submitting  manuscripts  indiscriminately 


228  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY   WRITING 

they  run  the  risk  of  losing  the  ideas  of  their  plays,  when 
novel,  if  not  the  plays  entire.  Of  course,  modern  copy- 
right arrangements  insure  a  certain  amount  of  protection. 
By  filling  out  a  blank  and  sending  it  with  one  dollar,  a 
ten-cent  revenue  stamp,  and  a  carbon  copy  of  an  original 
play  to  the  Register  of  Copyrights  at  Washington,  the 
author  can  obtain  a  certificate  of  copyright  good  for 
twenty-eight  years.  This  certificate,  together  with 
evidence  that  a  producer  has  had  access  to  a  copy  of  the 
play,  makes  a  basis  for  a  damage  suit  against  the  producer, 
when  he  brings  out  under  another  title  a  strikingly  similar 
piece.  Perhaps  this  accounts  for  the  fact  that  many 
managers  carefully  avoid  mentioning  the  title  of  any  play 
in  their  letters:  "I  have  received  your  play,"  they  will 
write,  or  "I  have  read  your  play;"  but  they  rarely  make 
any  further  identification.  Anyhow,  it  is  notorious  that 
producers  are  often  harassed  and  victimized  in  the  matter 
of  plagiary  accusations. 

Manager  and  Actor 

The  experience  in  submitting  plays  to  managers,  if  only 
because  of  the  delay,  is  usually  disheartening.  Sooner  or 
later,  the  author  is  tempted  to  try  the  play  broker.  Some 
of  these  agents  are  reliable.  If  they  like  a  play,  they  will 
say  so;  and  sometimes  they  will  succeed  in  placing  it  for 
production.  Then  they  will  charge  a  commission  of  ten 
per  cent,  of  the  author's  profits,  which  is  a  very  reasonable 
fee  indeed,  since  the  agent  looks  after  the  drawing  of  con- 
tracts, the  collection  of  royalties,  and  all  other  necessary 
business.  However,  some  play  brokers  also  have  a  habit 


PLACING  THE   PLAY  229 

of  storing  manuscripts  away  indefinitely,  even  after 
having  warmly  approved  them. 

There  remains  the  actor.  If  he  reads  your  play  and 
becomes  interested  in  it,  he  will  of  course  be  likely  to  urge 
its  production  by  his  manager.  But  actors,  too,  are  busy 
people.  They  often  carry  trunkfuls  of  manuscripts  about 
with  them  and  find  time  to  read  none.  And  as  a  rule, 
when  the  actor  glances  over  a  play  and  finds  in  it  no  part 
suited  to  himself,  his  interest  in  it  as  a  working  possibility 
ceases. 

The  process  of  seeing  a  manager  usually  includes  making 
an  appointment  by  letter,  waiting  long  beyond  the  hour 
named,  accepting  rebuffs  from  the  Napoleonic  office-boy, 
and  at  last  being  dismissed  by  the  producer  himself  with 
scant  encouragement.  Play  brokers  can  generally  be  seen 
with  less  delay.  In  the  event  of  an  interview,  few  man- 
agers, actors,  or  agents  will  do  more  than  take  a  manu- 
script and  promise  to  read  it  at  some  indefinite  future  date. 
And  personal  visits  rarely  accomplish  more  than  do 
courteous  letters  toward  securing  immediate  action. 
Obviously,  watchful  waiting  is  usually  the  only  practicable 
policy  for  the  beginner. 

Producers'  promises  to  read,  doubtless  for  the  most  part 
made  in  good  faith,  are  often  not  fulfilled  before  the 
author's  patience  has  become  exhausted.  One  rising 
Western  manager,  for  example,  agreed  to  consider  an 
amateur's  manuscript.  After  it  had  been  in  his  office  for 
some  months,  he  replied  to  an  inquiry  that  he  was  much 
interested  in  the  play  and  would  in  all  probability  pro- 
duce it.  At  the  end  of  eighteen  months,  the  author 


230  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

requested  its  return.  Meanwhile,  the  manager  had 
written  some  fifteen  letters  of  excuse  for  postponement, 
while  he  was  repeatedly  announcing  through  the  press 
the  acquisition  of  new  pieces,  and  his  desire  to  consider 
manuscripts  from  "unknown"  authors. 

In  the  present  state  of  vaudeville,  except  for  the  rare 
one-act  play  theatres,  there  are  almost  no  producing 
managers,  as  in  the  "legitimate,"  to  whom  playlets  may 
to  any  purpose  be  submitted.  Few  if  any  booking  offices 
or  other  business  enterprises  connected  with  the  variety 
stage  will  consider  unsolicited  manuscripts  with  a  view  to 
production.  There  are,  however,  play  brokers  who  fre- 
quently place  sketches;  and  vaudeville  actors  are  usually 
on  the  lookout  for  next  year's  "vehicle."  One  means  of 
getting  a  sketch  seriously  considered  for  vaudeville  is  to 
arrange  for  a  "try-out"  that  the  booking  office  reviewers 
may  witness.  This,  of  course,  is  beyond  the  possibilities 
of  the  average  author. 

And  so  it  goes.  Nevertheless,  the  self-confident  pseudo- 
dramatist  will  not  allow  even  an  apparently  endless  series 
of  rebuffs  utterly  to  dishearten  him.  The  prize  is  no 
trivial  one;  and,  anyhow,  a  good  fight  is  its  own  reward. 
There  are  many  interesting  stories  of  frequently  rejected 
plays  that  eventually  won  renown  for  their  authors. 
Mr.  Augustin  MacHugh,  for  example,  is  quoted  as  saying 
that  in  at  least  three  offices  his  farce,  "Officer  666,"  was 
never  taken  from  its  wrappings. 

The  secret  history  of  many  latter-day  stage  successes 
would,  indeed,  make  interesting  reading,  if  all  the  facts 
were  available.  Certainly,  if  rumors  are  to  be  credited, 


PLACING  THE  PLAY  231 

"The  Great  Divide,"  "The  Witching  Hour,"  "My  Friend 
from  India,"  and  "Paid  in  Full" — not  to  mention  dozens 
of  others — would  each  serve  as  the  subject  of  a  prominent 
chapter,  as  "D'Arcy  of  the  Guards"  has  done  for  a  whole 
book. 

Meanwhile,  from  time  to  time  unheard-of  playwrights 
do  become  known  through  the  submission  of  manuscripts, 
by  mail  or  in  person,  to  producers,  brokers,  and  actors. 
Moreover,  there  remains  at  least  one  other  possible  open- 
ing, and  that  is  the  stock  company. 

The  Stock  Company  Opening 

Nearly  every  American  city  of  considerable  size  now 
has  its  resident  troupe  of  players.  Many  of  these  com- 
panies occasionally  vary  their  repertoire  of  standard 
successes  with  "try-outs"  of  new  plays.  A  proved  play 
is,  of  course,  a  valuable  property;  and  resident  stock 
managers  are  often  willing  to  wade  through  piles  of 
manuscripts  in  the  hope  of  securing  a  promising  drama. 
Plays  are  generally  produced  by  stock  companies  upon 
terms  providing  for  a  joint  ownership  of  future  rights, 
three-fourths  or  two-thirds  accruing  to  the  author.  The 
manager,  having  demonstrated  the  worth  of  the  play  in 
stock,  endeavors  to  place  it  with  some  regular  producer 
and  naturally  in  this  effort  enjoys  unusual  opportunities. 

From  time  to  time  stock  managers,  newspapers,  and 
various  organizations  conduct  contests,  in  which  the 
prize  is  a  production  of  the  winning  play.  These  contests 
have  frequently  resulted  in  bringing  promising  work  to 
the  producer's  attention.  All  in  all,  the  stock  companies 


232  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

probably  offer  the  most  satisfactory  opportunity,  though 
a  limited  one,  for  the  young  writer  seeking  a  hearing. 

Terms  of  Contract 

When  the  play  has  at  last  been  accepted  by  the  metro- 
politan manager,  there  arises  the  question  of  the  terms  of 
the  contract.  Most  producers  have  regular  forms,  which 
they  submit  to  new  authors  with  but  slight  variations. 
Some  managers  will  offer  to  buy  a  play  outright,  for,  say, 
five  hundred  or  a  thousand  dollars.  Others  will  stipulate 
that  after  the  payment  of  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
dollars  royalty  the  author  shall  relinquish  all  proprietary 
rights  in  the  play.  Ordinarily,  however,  the  terms  of  the 
contract  give  the  new  author  from  three  to  five  per  cent, 
of  the  gross  receipts,  with  perhaps  a  sliding  scale,  following 
an  initial  success,  of  five  per  cent,  on  the  first  four  thousand 
dollars  a  week;  seven  and  a  half  per  cent,  on  the  next 
two  or  three  thousand;  and  ten  per  cent,  on  all  additional 
receipts.  Naturally,  dramatists  of  established  fame  get 
more  generous  terms.  When  a  play  is  accepted,  even 
from  a  beginner,  an  advance  royalty  of  from  two  hundred 
and  fifty  to  a  thousand  dollars  is  often  paid. 

The  contract  in  any  case  should  stipulate  that  the  play 
is  to  be  produced  within  a  given  time  limit — six  months 
or  a  year  from  date.  If  possible,  the  manager  should  be 
bound  to  give  a  definite  number  of  performances  each 
year  to  retain  his  control  of  the  piece;  and  details,  such 
as  weekly  box  office  statements  and  payments  of  royalty, 
manuscript  changes,  and  the  ownership  of  novelization, 
foreign,  and  stock  rights,  should  be  included  in  the  agree- 


PLACING  THE   PLAY  233 

ment.  However,  in  view  of  the  manifold  difficulties  of 
securing  even  so  much  as  a  hearing,  the  unknown  author 
may  well  be  willing  to  accept  any  honorable  terms  pro- 
posed. 

The  Play  as  a  Collaboration 

After  the  acceptance  and  the  contract,  there  remains 
what  many  authors  regard  as  the  hardest  work  of  all — 
the  production.  The  beginner  can,  of  course,  leave  his 
manuscript  to  the  producer  and  concern  himself  with  it 
no  further:  indeed,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  he  will  be 
fully  urged  so  to  do.  However,  he  may  have  insisted  on 
a  clause  in  the  contract  giving  him  the  right  to  participate 
in  such  changes  as  are  deemed  necessary.  And  in  any 
event,  he  knows  he  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  play  as  it  is 
performed,  rather  than  as  he  wrote  it. 

A  well-known  novelist,  who  has  produced  a  single  piece 
for  the  stage,  is  quoted  as  saying,  "The  reason  that  I  do 
not  want  to  write  another  play  is  simply  that  I  want 
anything  to  which  my  name  is  attached  to  be  wholly  and 
entirely  mine."  On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  an  acted  play  is  always  a  collaboration,  not  only  of 
author  and  actors,  but  also  of  producer  and  audience. 
All  the  possibilities  in  any  one  manuscript  are  rarely 
foreseen  by  any  one  person,  not  even  by  the  author. 
And,  while  some  plays  have  been  spoiled  through  bungling 
manipulation  at  the  hands  of  the  incompetent,  many 
others  have  been  virtually  infused  with  the  breath  of  life 
through  skilful  and  experienced  production.  "It's  a  wise 
author  that  knows  his  own  play  when  it  is  acted;"  and 


234  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

certainly  a  foolish  author  that  complains  when  his  half- 
baked  work  has  really  been  lifted  out  of  mediocrity. 

The  amateur  dramatist  who  has  finished,  typed,  and 
copyrighted  a  new  play  should  watch  the  columns  of  the 
newspapers  and  especially  of  the  higher  class  periodicals 
devoted  to  the  stage  or  to  the  writing  craft,  for  announce- 
ments of  play-reading  bureaus  established  by  managers, 
of  prize  contests  of  various  kinds,  of  the  immediate  wants 
of  noted  actors,  and  of  such  opportunities  as  are  afforded 
by  the  semi-professional  playhouses  or  companies.  If  he 
feels  confident  that  his  drama  is  adapted  to  the  needs  and 
abilities  of  some  particular  "star,"  the  author  should 
address  the  player,  usually  by  letter,  asking  permission 
to  submit  his  manuscript.  In  dealing  with  play  brokers, 
it  is  generally  best  to  select  those  of  established  reputation. 
And  wherever  possible,  the  beginner  should  endeavor  to 
interest  in  his  work  the  manager  of  the  local  stock  com- 
pany. 

Above  all,  throughout  the  often  trying  experiences  of 
the  unknown  author  seeking  to  "place"  his  play,  let  him 
resolutely  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  in  the  earnest  conviction 
that  sooner  or  later  such  merit  as  his  work  possesses 
must  be  recognized. 


APPENDIX  A 

SPECIMEN   SCENARIO 

CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC 
An  Heroic  Comedy  in  Five  Acts 

BY  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Act  I 

The  interior  of  the  Hdtel  de  Bourgogne  in  1640.  The 
public  begins  to  assemble  for  the  play.  Soldiers  refuse  to 
pay;  lackeys  gamble;  musketeers  flirt  with  flower-girls; 
bourgeois  peer  about  for  notables;  spectators  eat  and 
drink;  cavaliers  fence;  pages  play  pranks;  a  pickpocket 
instructs  his  young  pupils;  a  barmaid  vends  beverages; 
foppish  noblemen  arrive  late. 

Ligniere,  a  drunkard,  brings  in  Christian  de  Neuvillette, 
a  handsome  youth  lately  come  to  Paris,  who  seeks  here  the 
fair  unknown  with  whom  he  has  fallen  in  love.  As  the 
precieuses  appear  in  the  galleries,  Christian  scans  their 
faces,  but  in  vain. 

Ragueneau,  a  pastry-cook  and  poet,  arriving,  asks 
anxiously  after  Cyrano,  who  has  forbidden  Montfleury, 
the  actor  billed  for  this  performance,  to  appear  on  the 
stage  during  a  month.  Several  spectators  ask  who  this 
redoubtable  Cyrano  is,  and  Ragueneau,  aided  by  the 
serious-minded  Le  Bret,  another  of  Bergerac's  friends, 


236  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

makes  an  extended  reply.  Cyrano — poet,  duellist,  physi- 
cist, musician — is  a  bizarre,  extravagant,  fantastic  fellow 
with  a  nose  of  extraordinary  size  and  a  sword  which 
menaces  all  who  dare  remark  on  his  personal  appear- 
ance. 

Christian's  inamorata  appears  in  a  box.  Ligniere 
explains  to  him  that  she  is  Roxane,  an  ultra.-precieuse  and 
a  cousin  of  Cyrano.  With  her  is  the  Comte  de  Guiche, 
who  is  enamored  of  her  and  would  force  her  to  wed  a  sorry 
and  complaisant  fellow,  the  Vicomte  de  Valvert.  Ligniere 
himself  has  exposed  the  nefarious  project  in  a  ballad  which 
must  have  greatly  enraged  the  comte.  Christian  instantly 
declares  he  will  seek  out  Valvert  and  challenge  him. 
However,  the  youth  remains  in  rapt  admiration  of  Roxane, 
who  returns  his  gaze,  while  Ligniere  staggers  off  to  a 
tavern. 

Guiche,  descending  from  the  gallery,  calls  one  of  his 
flattering  followers  "Valvert."  Christian  feels  in  his 
pocket  for  a  glove,  but  finds  instead  a  pickpocket's  hand. 
The  thief  buys  his  pardon  by  revealing  that  a  nobleman, 
angered  by  a  ballad  of  Ligniere's,  has  posted  a  hun- 
dred cutthroats  to  assassinate  the  drunkard  on  his  way 
home.  Honor-bound,  Christian  hurries  forth  to  warn 
Ligniere. 

The  play — La  Clorise — begins  in  the  midst  of  general 
excitement.  The  Falstaffian  Montfleury  appears  and 
recites  three  lines  of  the  opening  speech.  Then  a  voice 
exclaims  from  the  pit,  "Rascal!  Did  I  not  forbid  you  to 
show  your  face  here  for  a  month?" 

The  audience  is  amazed.     Montfleury  hesitates.     Cy- 


APPENDICES  237 

rano,  brandishing  a  cane,  rises  above  the  throng,  stand- 
ing on  a  chair,  his  mustache  bristling,  his  nose  terrible 
to  behold.  The  indignant  spectators  side  with  the  actor. 
Cyrano  offers  to  fight  the  whole  audience  one  by  one.  His 
challenge  not  accepted,  he  causes  Montfleury,  that  full 
moon,  to  eclipse.  When  other  actors  complain  of  their 
loss,  Cyrano  tosses  them  a  purse  of  gold. 

At  the  suggestion  of  Guiche,  Valvert  seeks  to  insult 
Cyrano,  who,  noting  the  vicomte's  dulness,  suggests  a 
score  of  witty  remarks  that  might  be  made  regarding  his 
own  immense  nose.  The  throng  is  delighted:  this  Gascon 
is  better  than  a  play.  Cyrano  overwhelms  Valvert, 
answering  the  latter's  ultimate  taunt — "Poet!" — by 
fighting  a  duel  with  the  vicomte,  and  at  the  same  time 
composing  an  appropriate  ballade.  At  the  end  of  the 
envoi  Valvert  is  wounded,  and  his  friends  carry  him  off. 

Cyrano  is  acclaimed  on  all  sides.  After  the  admiring 
spectators  have  departed,  in  explaining  his  conduct  to  his 
anxious  friend  Le  Bret,  the  Gascon  confesses  that  he  is  in 
love — hopelessly,  of  course,  because  of  his  nose — with 
Roxane.  Le  Bret  encourages  him;  and  when  the  lady's 
duenna  comes  to  make  an  appointment  for  her  with 
Cyrano,  the  latter  is  much  elated. 

Ligniere,  quite  drunk,  is  brought  in.  He  tells  of  the 
warning  he  has  had  in  a  note  left  for  him  at  a  tavern  by 
Christian.  Cyrano,  in  his  elation,  eagerly  seizes  the 
opportunity.  He  forms  a  procession  of  actors  and  officers 
and  marches  forth  at  the  head  of  it  to  do  battle  single- 
handed  with  the  hundred  men  posted  to  assassinate 
Ligniere,  his  friend. 


238  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF   PLAY  WRITING 

ACT  II 

The  kitchen  of  Ragueneau's  pastry  shop.  The  poet- 
cook  amusingly  mixes  his  two  arts,  as  he  directs  his 
apprentices.  Cyrano  conies  to  keep  his  appointment  here 
with  Roxane.  While  waiting  he  composes  a  love  letter  to 
her  and  takes  occasion  to  warn  the  wife  of  Ragueneau 
against  the  gallantry  of  the  tall  musketeer  who  is  flirting 
with  her. 

Roxane  arrives.  With  tarts  and  cream  puffs  Cyrano 
bribes  the  duenna  to  leave  them  alone  together.  Roxane 
thanks  him  for  ridding  her  of  Valvert  and  tenderly  binds 
up  her  cousin's  wounded  hand.  She  confesses  that  she 
is  in  love  with  a  man  who  does  not  guess  it,  but  who  shall 
soon  be  told.  Cyrano's  hopes  are  inspired;  but  when  she 
describes  her  hero  as  handsome,  their  knell  is,  of  course,  rung. 

It  is  Christian  that  Roxane  loves.  She  knows  nothing 
of  him  except  that  he  belongs  to  Cyrano's  company,  the 
Cadets  of  Gascony.  She  feels  certain  the  youth  must  be 
as  witty  as  he  is  handsome;  if  it  should  turn  out  other- 
wise, she — the  precieuse — would  die  of  it.  She  leaves  her 
cousin  proudly  dissimulating  his  broken  heart,  after  he 
has  given  his  promise  to  protect  her  lover  from  duels.. 

The  cadets  come  with  a  crowd  eager  to  hear  the  account 
of  Cyrano's  fight  with  the  hundred  men.  At  his  captain's 
request,  Bergerac  controls  his  feelings  and  improvises  a 
set  of  triolets  by  way  of  presentation  of  his  comrades  to 
Guiche.  The  latter  patronizes  Cyrano,  whose  resent- 
ment is  instantaneous  and  bitter.  One  of  the  cadets  hav- 
ing brought  a  collection  of  battered  hats  left  behind  by 
the  ruffians  dispersed  the  night  before,  Bergerac  flings 


APPENDICES  239 

them  at  the  feet  of  the  comte,  the  cutthroats'  employer, 
who  departs  with  his  followers  in  a  rage. 

Le  Bret  expostulates  with  Cyrano  for  his  rashness  in 
neglecting  his  opportunities;  but  Bergerac,  scornfully 
asserting  his  independence,  repudiates  the  compromises 
wherewith  courtiers  are  wont  to  rise.  His  friend  at  length 
understands  that  this  bitterness  is  largely  due  to  the  fact 
that  Roxane  does  not  love  him. 

Christian,  as  a  new-comer  to  the  company  of  the  cadets, 
is  informed  by  them  of  the  danger  of  making  the  slightest 
reference  to  their  comrade's  huge  nose.  The  youth,  against 
whose  courage  insinuations  have  been  made,  deliberately 
insults  Bergerac  during  the  latter's  recital  of  his  feat  of 
arms  of  the  previous  night.  Cyrano  is  about  to  hurl  him- 
self upon  his  insulter,  when  for  the  first  time  he  learns  the 
latter's  identity.  Bergerac  orders  all  but  Christian  from 
the  room.  The  cadets  go,  convinced  that  they  have  seen 
the  last  of  the  young  man. 

When  the  two  rivals  are  left  alone,  Cyrano  astounds 
Christian  by  saying,  "  Embrace  me.  You  are  brave.  I  am 
her  brother — Roxane's — at  least,  her  fraternal  cousin. 
She  has  told  me  all! "  Informed  that  the  precieuse  expects 
a  letter  from  him  that  very  evening,  Christian  sadly  con- 
fesses his  inability  to  compose  one  that  will  satisfy  her 
fastidious  tastes.  Cyrano,  wishing  only  that  he  had,  to 
express  his  soul,  such  a  handsome  interpreter,  strikes  a 
bargain  with  the  youth:  Christian  is  to  supply  the  physical 
exterior,  Bergerac  the  essential  love  eloquence.  Between 
them  they  will  make  a  real  hero  of  romance.  Producing 
the  love  letter  he  has  just  written,  Cyrano  explains  that 


240  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY  WRITING 

poets  always  have  such  unaddressed  epistles  about  them 
and  gives  it  to  the  delighted  youth  to  send  to  Roxane. 
The  cadets,  venturing  to  return,  are  amazed  to  find  the 
two  antagonists  in  each  other's  arms. 

The  immediate  inference  is  that  the  terrible  Gascon  has 
been  tamed.  The  tall  musketeer,  against  whom  Bergerac 
has  warned  Ragueneau's  wife,  concludes  that  one  may 
now  speak  with  impunity  to  Cyrano  about  his  nose. 
Calling  the  woman  to  witness,  the  gallant  approaches 
Bergerac,  sniffing  affectedly.  "What  a  surprising  odor!" 
he  exclaims.  "  But  you,  sir,  surely  must  have  noticed  it? 
What  is  it  that  I  smell  here?  "  And  Cyrano,  punning  on  a 
word  that  means  both  a  blow  of  the  hand  and  the  gilli- 
flower,  replies,  as  he  slaps  the  tall  musketeer's  face, 
"Lagiroflee!" 

Act  III 

An  open  place  before  the  house  of  Roxane;  a  balcony, 
a  garden,  trees.  The  knocker  of  the  house  opposite  is 
swathed  in  linen,  like  a  sore  thumb.  Inside,  the  duenna 
tells  Ragueneau,  the  precieuses  have  gathered  to  listen  to 
a  "Discourse  on  the  Tender." 

Cyrano  appears,  singing,  followed  by  two  pages  strum- 
ming theorbos.  He  is  instructing  them  in  their  art.  He 
tells  Roxane  how  he  has  obtained  their  services  as  the 
result  of  a  wager.  Weary  of  them,  he  sends  them  to  sere- 
nade Montfleury,  commanding  them  to  play  a  long  time — 
and  out  of  tune.  When  Roxane  overflows  with  praise  of 
the  wit  and  eloquence  of  Christian's  letters,  Cyrano  makes 
light  of  them. 


APPENDICES  241 

Guiche  comes,  and  Bergerac  conceals  himself  within 
the  house.  The  comte  is  about  to  depart  with  an  army 
to  relieve  the  city  of  Arras,  which  is  besieged  by  the 
Spaniards.  She  artfully  persuades  him  that  he  can  best 
revenge  himself  on  her  boastful  cousin  by  leaving  the 
latter's  company  behind. 

When  the  comte  has  gone,  Roxane  bids  Bergerac  detain 
Christian,  should  the  latter  arrive  while  she  is  in  the  house 
opposite.  For  the  first  time  the  youth  in  person  is  to 
speak  to  her  of  love  this  evening. 

Cyrano  calls  Christian,  who  has  been  waiting  outside, 
and  bids  him  prepare  his  memory  for  the  eloquence  he  is 
to  offer  Roxane.  However,  Christian  declares  he  will 
borrow  his  words  no  longer,  but  will  speak  for  himself. 
Roxane  abruptly  reappears,  and  Bergerac  leaves  them. 

As  night  is  falling,  the  precieuse  sits  beside  her  young 
lover  and  bids  him  speak  to  her  in  the  Euphuistic  strain 
which  she  adores,  and  in  which  the  letters  written  by 
Cyrano  have  been  couched.  But  Christian  can  only 
exclaim  bluntly,  "I  love  you,"  and  she  presently  dismisses 
him  in  disappointment.  "  When  you  lose  your  eloquence," 
she  asserts,  "you  displease  me  as  much  as  if  you  had 
become  ugly." 

Christian  in  despair  summons  Bergerac  and  implores 
his  aid.  When  Roxane  appears  in  the  balcony,  Cyrano 
first  whispers  to  the  youth  the  words  of  passion  which 
the  latter  repeats.  Presently,  taking  Christian's  place, 
in  the  darkness,  the  Gascon  woos  his  enraptured  cousin 
in  the  poetic  style  she  so  highly  values.  When  she  at 
length  suggests  that  the  speaker  mount  to  her  side,  Cyrano 


242  THE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY  WRITING 

is  compelled  to  let  Christian  climb  the  ivy  and  take  the 
kiss  which  the  grotesque  hero's  love-making  has  won. 
The  latter's  consolation  is  that  on  the  lips  of  Christian 
Roxane  kisses  the  words  Cyrano  has  just  spoken. 

They  are  interrupted  by  a  monk  bringing  a  letter  from 
Guiche  to  Roxane.  Cyrano  now  makes  his  presence 
known  to  her  as  if  he  had  just  returned.  The  comte  has 
lingered  at  the  monastery,  after  the  departure  of  his  regi- 
ment for  Arras,  and  desires  to  see  Roxane  at  once.  She 
pretends  to  read  in  the  letter  an  order  that  the  stupid 
monk  shall  at  once  marry  her  to  Christian.  Cyrano  is 
posted  before  the  house  to  detain  any  visitors,  while  the 
other  three  go  inside  for  the  ceremony. 

Left  alone,  Bergerac  climbs  to  the  balcony,  pulls  his  hat 
over  his  eyes,  and  wraps  his  cloak  about  him.  When  the 
anxious  Guiche  enters,  Cyrano  by  means  of  the  branch 
of  a  tree  swings  himself  down  at  the  feet  of  the  astonished 
comte.  As  a  pretended  voyager  from  the  moon,  the 
versatile  Gascon  manages  to  prevent  Guiche  from  enter- 
ing the  house  until  the  newly  married  pair  appear.  "  Say 
good-bye  to  your  husband,"  then  exclaims  the  angry 
comte.  "I  change  my  mind.  His  regiment  shall  go  at 
once  to  Arras." 

Roxane  in  despair  confides  Christian  to  Cyrano's  pro- 
tection, making  her  cousin  promise — as  he  does  most 
readily — that  the  youth  will  write  to  her  often. 

Act  IV 

The  post  of  the  Gascon  cadets  at  the  siege  of  Arras. 
When  the  tattered,  half-starved  soldiers  at  the  sound  of 


APPENDICES  243 

shots  stir  from  their  early  morning  slumber,  their  captain 
reassures  them,  saying,  "It  is  only  Cyrano  coming  back." 
The  latter,  appearing  over  the  breastworks,  is  scolded  by 
Le  Bret  for  thus  risking  his  life  so  frequently.  "I  promised 
her,"  replies  Bergerac,  "that  this  handsome  fellow  should 
write  often;"  and  he  points  to  the  sleeping  Christian. 

The  reveille  is  sounded,  and  the  cadets  awaken.  When 
they  grow  almost  mutinous  with  hunger,  Cyrano,  at  the 
captain's  request,  rallies  them  out  of  their  ill-humor  with 
his  ready  wit  and  his  moving  eloquence. 

They  observe  Guiche  approaching,  foppishly  clad,  and 
revile  him  as  a  false  Gascon.  Resolved  not  to  let  him  see 
that  they  suffer,  they  play  at  dice  and  cards.  Their  air 
of  contentment  enrages  Guiche,  who  upbraids  them  for 
their  criticism  of  his  dress  and  conduct.  He  reminds 
them  of  his  prowess  in  battle  the  day  before,  describing 
how  he  dropped  his  white  scarf  on  the  field  and  so  escaped 
without  attracting  attention  to  his  rank. 

"Henry  IV,"  says  Cyrano,  "would  never  have  con- 
sented, even  though  the  enemy  were  overwhelming  him, 
to  have  stripped  himself  of  his  white  plume.  Had  I  been 
present  when  your  scarf  fell — and  this  is  where  our  types 
of  courage  differ,  monsieur — I  should  have  picked  it  up 
and  worn  it  myself.  Lend  it  to  me:  I'll  wear  it  this 
evening  and  lead  the  assault." — "Gascon  boasting!" 
retorts  the  comte.  "You  know  well  enough  that  the 
scarf  lies  at  a  point  which  grapeshot  has  been  riddling 
ever  since,  and  where  nobody  can  go  to  get  it."  Where- 
upon Cyrano  calmly  draws  the  white  scarf  from  his 
pocket,  saying,  "Here  it  is." 


244  TTTE   TECHNIQUE   OF   PLAY   WRITING 

By  way  of  revenge  the  enraged  commander  gives  a 
signal  which  will,  within  half  an  hour,  bring  an  assault  of 
the  Spaniards  on  this  point  in  the  entrenchments.  Prepa- 
rations are  made  to  sustain  the  attack. 

Christian  asks  Cyrano  for  another  letter  to  Roxane. 
Bergerac  has  one  ready.  But  there  is  a  tear-stain  on  it, 
which  arouses  the  youth's  suspicions. 

Roxane  arrives  in  a  carriage  driven  by  Ragueneau: 
she  has  prevailed  on  the  gallantry  of  the  Spanish  officers 
to  let  her  through  their  lines.  She  gives  the  cadets  her 
handkerchief  to  serve  as  their  company  flag.  They  dis- 
cover that  her  carriage  contains  quantities  of  well- 
concealed  provisions.  Guiche  returns,  and  they  hide 
from  him  the  newly-received  supplies.  As  Roxane  will 
not  leave,  he  determines  to  remain  and  share  the  danger. 
The  cadets  thereupon  relent,  but  their  commander  scorns 
"their  leavings."  "You're  making  progress!"  says 
Bergerac,  saluting  him. 

Cyrano  draws  Christian  aside  and,  troubled,  explains 
to  him  that  letters  have  gone  to  Roxane  more  often  than 
the  youth  has  known.  In  fact,  twice  a  day  the  Gascon 
has  risked  his  life  to  post  a  love  missive  to  his  cousin.  It 
is  these  letters  which  have  inspired  her  to  come  here 
through  so  many  dangers.  She  tells  Christian  she  loves 
him  no  longer  for  his  beauty,  but  for  his  soul  alone.  She 
would  still  love  him  even  if  he  were  hideous.  Christian, 
broken-hearted,  bids  Cyrano  tell  her  all,  that  she  may 
choose  between  them,  and  goes. 

Convinced  by  her  that  Roxane  now  really  cares  only  for 
the  soul  that  has  dictated  these  letters,  Cyrano,  trembling 


APPENDICES  24$ 

with  happiness,  is  about  to  reveal  to  her  his  bargain  with 
Christian.  At  that  moment,  however,  Le  Bret  brings 
word  that  the  young  soldier  has  been  shot;  and  Bergerac 
murmurs,  "It  is  ended.  I  can  never  tell  her  again!"  A 
moment  later,  when  Christian  is  brought  in,  dying, 
Cyrano  whispers  to  him,  "I  have  explained  everything. 
She  loves  you  still." 

In  her  dead  husband's  bosom  Roxane  finds  the  letter; 
it  is  stained  now  not  only  with  the  tears  of  Bergerac,  but 
also  with  Christian's  blood. 

The  assault  is  on.  Guiche  carries  off  the  fainting 
Roxane.  Cyrano,  brandishing  the  lance  bearing  her 
handkerchief,  rallies  his  company.  He  has  two  deaths  to 
avenge:  Christian's  and  that  of  his  own  happiness.  The 
Frenchmen  charge  into  the  ranks  of  the  Spaniards,  who 
are  pouring  over  the  embankment,  Bergerac  chanting  his 
triolet:— 

"These  are  the  Gascon  cadets 
Of  Carbon  de  Castel-Jaloux!" 

ActV 

The  park  of  a  Parisian  convent,  whither  Roxane  has 
retired  to  pass  her  widowhood;  an  autumn  afternoon, 
fifteen  years  later  than  the  date  of  Act  IV.  The  nuns 
speak  of  Cyrano's  long-standing  custom  of  coming  every 
Saturday  to  distract  the  grief  of  his  cousin  with  his  droll 
gossip.  He  is  poor  and  too  proud  to  accept  aid,  ill  and 
broken.  He  is  due  on  the  stroke  of  the  hour. 

Guiche  comes,  and  Roxane  assures  him  that  she  will 
continue  to  remain  here,  "vainly  blonde."  Sometimes  it 


246  THE   TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY   WRITING 


to  her  that  Christian  is  only  half-dead,  that  his 
love  floats  about  her,  living. 

Le  Bret  in  anxiety  interrupts.  Cyrano,  he  says,  is 
abandoned  and  friendless.  Everywhere  he  attacks 
hypocrisy  and  cant,  thus  making  for  himself  a  multitude 
of  enemies.  Roxane  feels  confidence  in  her  cousin's 
sword.  But  "solitude,  hunger,  December  entering  with 
wolf-steps  into  his  dark  chamber — they  are  the  scoundrels 
who  will  more  likely  slay  him.  Every  day  he  tightens  his 
belt  one  hole  more.  His  poor  nose  begins  to  take  on  the 
tones  of  old  ivory." 

Guiche  goes,  unable  to  conceal  an  amicable  envy  for 
Bergerac's  life  of  uncompromising  integrity,  and  warning 
Le  Bret  that  his  old  friend  is  in  danger  of  assassination. 
A  few  moments  later  Ragueneau  arrives  and  tells  Le  Bret 
that  Cyrano  has  been  wounded:  a  lackey  has  dropped  a 
stick  of  wood  on  the  Gascon's  head.  Without  telling 
Roxane,  the  two  friends  hasten  off  to  find  the  injured  man. 

Roxane  takes  up  her  embroidery.  The  clock  strikes. 
Is  Cyrano  going  to  be  late  for  the  first  time?  A  dead  leaf 
flutters  down  upon  her  embroidery-frame.  Bergerac  is 
announced.  She  does  not  look  up  from  her  work.  He  is 
very  pale  and  feeble,  but  he  forces  a  gay  tone  of  voice. 
He  has  had  a  most  troublesome  Visitor,  to  whom  he  has 
said,  "Excuse  me,  but  to-day  is  Saturday,  the  day  I  must 
call  at  a  certain  place;  nothing  can  make  me  fail.  Return 
in  an  hour."  He  closes  his  eyes  in  a  moment  of  weakness 
and  pain. 

Rallied  by  Roxane,  Cyrano  teases  a  gentle  nun,  swearing 
he  ate  meat  on  Friday  and  granting  her  permission  to  pray 


APPENDICES  247 

for  him  this  evening.  "I  have  not  waited  for  your  per- 
mission," replies  the  sister,  as  she  goes. 

Then,  struggling  against  his  pain,  he  rattles  off  his 
"gazette"  of  amusing  gossip,  stopping  abruptly  when 
he  comes  to  Saturday.  For  the  first  time  Roxane  looks 
up  at  him.  Then  she  hastens  to  his  side,  but  he  reassures 
her — it  is  merely  his  old  wound  of  Arras. 

Roxane  produces  Christian's  last  letter,  and  Cyrano 
claims  the  present  fulfilment  of  her  old  promise  to  let  him 
read  it  some  day.  Twilight  is  falling.  His  voice  rings 
with  passion  as  it  did  that  night  he  spoke  to  her  from 
beneath  her  balcony.  It  grows  too  dark  for  him  to  see, 
yet  he  continues  to  recite  the  fervent  words  of  the  letter 
which  she,  too,  knows  by  heart.  Roxane  understands  at 
last.  "  Why  have  you  been  silent  all  these  fourteen  years," 
she  exclaims,  "when  on  this  letter  which  he  did  not  write 
these  tears  were  your  tears?" — "This  blood  was  his 
blood,"  replies  Bergerac. 

Ragueneau  and  Le  Bret  enter  in  great  apprehension. 
Cyrano  takes  off  his  hat,  revealing  his  bandaged  head, 
and  finishes  his  "gazette"  with:  "And  Saturday,  the 
twenty-sixth,  an  hour  before  dinner,  Monsieur  de  Bergerac 
died  assassinated."  His  friends  weep,  as  he  swiftly 
summarizes  his  life  of  failure:  he  has  won  the  laurel  and 
the  rose  only  for  others.  One  hears  the  organ  in  the 
chapel.  The  moonlight  descends.  "I  have  loved  but  one 
being,"  wails  Roxane,  "and  him  I  lose  twice!" 

Delirium  seizes  Cyrano.  He  declaims  scraps  of  his  own 
compositions,  and  begs  Roxane  to  let  her  mourning  be 
"a  little  for  him"  too.  With  his  back  against  a  tree,  he 


248  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  PLAY  WRITING 

fights  off  his  imaginary  foes — Lies,  Prejudices,  Compro- 
mise, Cowardice,  Folly.  The  Visitor  he  put  off  for  an 
hour  has  returned  for  him.  Cyrano  dies,  boasting  that 
with  a  spotless  white  plume  he  will  this  night  enter  God's 
house. 


APPENDIX  B 

SPECIMEN  PAGES  OF  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  A  PLAY 

As  explained  on  page  206,  there  are  two  recognized 
forms  for  the  typing  of  play  manuscripts,  both  of  which 
use  red  ink  together  with  some  other  color,  preferably 
black — though  blue  or  purple  is  quite  acceptable.  Page 
250  shows  a  manuscript  page  in  reduced  facsimile  as  it 
appears  when  a  combination  red  and  black  typewriter 
ribbon  has  been  used.  Page  251  illustrates  a  page  in  which 
the  underscoring  in  red  has  been  done  with  pen  and  ink. 


Act  I) 

Booth 
Heavenal  It  reads  like  B  fairy  tale,  doesn't  it? 

Henry 
I  don't  know;  does  it? 

Booth 

Yes;  and  many  thanks.  I'll  do  my  best  not  to  let  you  re- 
gret it. Only,  in  the  old  fairy  tale,  you  know,  it  always 

ended  with  the the  young  man's  marrying  the the  rich 

old  geezer's  daughter  I 

Henry 

(Chuckling) 
And  I'm  the  rich  old  geezer,  eh?  Well,  I  mightn't  'a*  been 

half  as  rich  this  minute  if  it  wasn't  for  youl — -fleighol 

(Sizes  up  Booth) 
Bow,  I  suppose  my  cantankerous  daughter  wouldn't  have  you, 

Plercy;  not  if  I  said  anything  to  her  about  it.  But  if  she 
would and  you  was  willin1 

(Helen  and  Booth  exchange  eloquent  glances) 
...why,  you're  Just  about  the  feller  I'd  want  her  to  have. 

(Helen  dances  a  little  skirt  dance  of  delight  between 
the  door  L  and  the  screen.  Then  she  darts  into 
the  adjoining  room,  being  observed  only  by  Booth) 

Booth 

(Wta  spontaneity) 
Say,  Boss,  put  her  there  again! 

(Another  handshake) 
Do  you  know,  you  and  I  are  getting  to  be  better  friends 


Yes.   (Turns  to  dictionary)   That's  all. 

(Sllen,  though  curious,  continues  reading 
fend  J6hn. — Gi*aveS  6pen5  The  diction- 
snatenes  it  up  wi^n  tremoxing  ringers , 

a  pause,  crumpling  tne  note,  ne  turns 

"         • 
GRAVSS.   Bur ton I 

(Startled  by  his  tone,  the  others  turn  and 


BURTOII.   Yes,  sir. 
GRA7SS.   Where's  Sam? 

BURTOH.   He  went  out,  sir 

Went  out? 


BURTOH.   Y-yes,  sir.  About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago. 

GRAVES.   Where  to? 

BURTOH.   He  didn't  say,  sir. 

(Graves  turns  away  helplessly.  Burton 
XisTe'ilS  'find  TtteH  SSltlS  C.   GT'UVes 


MEAD.  Anything  wrong? 

GHAY33  (Lamely)  Ho,  no.  Don't  mind  me.  Margin's 
proposition's  all  right  --- 

(Pauae.   Susan  enters  R  and  is  troubled  at 


„  £USAU  (Approaches  him)  Father '. 

GRAVES  (Unable  longer  to  restrain  himself )   Hell's 
fire  I 

Christopher'. 


APPENDIX  C 

LIST  OF  PLAYS 

The  following  miscellaneous  list  of  plays  available  in 
English  includes  such  as  would  be  likely  to  interest  the 
student  of  the  technique  of  the  drama: 

fimile  Augier,  The  Post-Seriptum. 

fimile  Augier,  The  House  of  Fourchambault. 

Granville  Barker,  The  Madras  House. 

Granville  Barker,  The  Voysey  Inheritance. 

Granville  Barker,  Waste. 

J.  M.  Barrie,  The  Admirable  Crichton. 

J.  M.  Barrie,  Half  Hours. 

A.  Bennett  and  E.  Knoblauch,  Milestones. 

Arnold  Bennett,  What  the  Public  Wants. 

Rudolph  Besier,  Don. 

Bjornstjerne  Bjornson,  A  Lesson  in  Marriage. 

Eugene  Brieux,  Maternity. 

Eugene  Brieux,  The  Red  Robe. 

Eugene  Brieux,  The  Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont. 

Alfred  Capus,  Brignol  and  His  Daughter. 

C.  Haddon  Chambers,  The  Tyranny  of  Tears. 

H.  H.  Davies,  The  Mollusc. 

Richard  Harding  Davis,  The  Galloper. 

Jose  Echegaray,  The  Great  Galeoto. 

J.  B.  Fagan,  The  Earth. 

Clyde  Fitch,  The  Truth. 


APPENDICES  253 

J.  O.  Francis,  Change. 

John  Galsworthy,  The  Eldest  Son. 

John  Galsworthy,  The  Pigeon. 

John  Galsworthy,  The  Silver  Box. 

John  Galsworthy,  Strife. 

Giuseppe  Giacosa,  The  Stronger. 

Lady  Gregory,  Short  Plays. 

Angel  Guimera,  Marta  of  the  Lowlands. 

Gerhart  Hauptmann,  The  Beaver  Coat. 

Gerhart  Hauptmann,  The  Conflagration. 

Gerhart  Hauptmann,  Rose  Bernd. 

Gerhart  Hauptmann,  The  Weavers. 

Paul  Hervieu,  Know  Thyself. 

Paul  Hervieu,  The  Labyrinth. 

Stanley  Houghton,  Hindle  Wakes. 

Victor  Hugo,  Hernani. 

Victor  Hugo,  Ruy  Bias. 

Henrik  Ibsen,  A  Doll's  House. 

Henrik  Ibsen,  An  Enemy  of  the  People. 

Henrik  Ibsen,  Ghosts. 

Henrik  Ibsen,  Pillars  of  Society. 

Henrik  Ibsen,  Rosmersholm. 

J.  K.  Jerome,  The  Passing  of  the  Third  Floor  Back. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones,  The  Liars. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Mrs.  Dane's  Defence. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Whitewashing  Julia. 

C.  R.  Kennedy,  The  Servant  in  the  House. 

Charles  Kenyon,  Kindling. 

Percy  Mackaye,  The  Scarecrow. 


254  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF  PLAY   WRITING 

Maurice  Maeterlinck,  The  Blue  Bird. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck,  Monna  Vanna. 

J.  Hartley  Manners,  The  House  Next  Door. 

George  Middleton,  Embers  (and  other  one-act  plays). 

Langdon  Mitchell,  The  New  York  Idea. 

William  Vaughn  Moody,  The  Great  Divide. 

L.  N.  Parker,  Disraeli. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  The  Gay  Lord  Quex. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  His  House  in  Order. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  Iris. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  The  Magistrate. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  Mid-Channel. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  The  Thunderbolt. 

A.  W.  Pinero,  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray. 

Edmond  Rostand,  L'Aiglon. 

Edmond  Rostand,  Chanteder. 

Edmond  Rostand,  Cyrano  de  Bergerac. 

Edmond  Rostand,  The  Romancers. 

Victorien  Sardou,  The  Black  Pearl. 

Victorien  Sardou,  Diplomacy. 

Victorien  Sardou,  Divorqons. 

Victorien  Sardou,  Patriet 

Eugene  Scribe,  A  Scrap  of  Paper. 

G.  B.  Shaw,  Arms  and  the  Man. 

G.  B.  Shaw,  Candida. 

G.  B.  Shaw,  Fanny's  First  Play. 

G.  B.  Shaw,  Man  and  Superman. 

G.  B.  Shaw,  Pygmalion. 

G.  B.  Shaw,  You  Never  Can  Tell. 

Edward  Sheldon,  The  Nigger. 


APPENDICES  255 

Edward  Sheldon,  Romance. 

Githa  Sowerby,  Rutherford  and  Son. 

August  Strindberg,  The  Father. 

Hermann  Sudermann,  The  Joy  of  Living. 

Hermann  Sudermann,  Magda. 

Hermann  Sudermann,  The  Vale  of  Content. 

J.  M.  Synge,  Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows. 

J.  M.  Synge,  The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World. 

].  M.  Synge,  Riders  to  the  Sea. 

J.  M.  Synge,  The  Well  of  the  Saints. 

B.  Tarkington  and  H.  L.  Wilson,  The  Man  from  Home. 

Augustus  Thomas,  As  a  Man  Thinks. 

Augustus  Thomas,  Arizona. 

Augustus  Thomas,  The  Witching  Hour. 

Oscar  Wilde,  An  Ideal  Husband. 

Oscar  Wilde,  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest. 

Oscar  Wilde,  A  Woman  of  no  Importance. 

Oscar  Wilde,  Lady  Windermere's  Fan. 

W.  B.  Yeats,  The  Hour-Glass. 

W.  B.  Yeats,  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 

Israel  Zangwill,  The  Melting  Pot. 


APPENDIX  D 

LIST  OF  HELPFUL  BOOKS 

The  beginner  at  play  writing  will  find  the  following 
books  for  the  most  part  interesting  and  helpful: — 

William  Archer,  Play  Making. 

Elizabeth  Baker,  The  Play  of  To-day. 

George  P.  Baker  (announced),  The  Technique  of  the  Drama. 

Richard  Burton,  The  New  American  Drama. 

W.  P.  Eaton,  At  the  New  Theatre  and  Others. 

Gustav  Freytag,  The  Technique  of  the  Drama. 

E.  E.  Hale,  Dramatists  of  To-day. 

Clayton  Hamilton,  Studies  in  Stagecraft. 

Brander  Matthews,  A  Study  of  the  Drama. 

H.  K.  Moderwell,  The  Theatre  of  To-day. 

M.  J.  Moses,  The  American  Dramatist. 

Richard  G.  Moulton,  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Thinker. 

Arthur  Huntington  Nason,  James  Shirley,  Dramatist. 

Ludwig  Lewisohn,  The  Modern  Drama. 

"Chief  Contemporary  Dramatists,"  edited  by  Thomas 
H.  Dickinson,  is  a  convenient  collection  of  twenty  modern 
plays,  including  "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,"  "The 
Witching  Hour,"  "Riders  to  the  Sea,"  "The  Vale  of  Con- 
tent," and  "Know  Thyself." 

"The  Continental  Drama  of  To-day,"  "The  British 
and  American  Dramas  of  To-day,"  and  "Contemporary 


APPENDICES  257 

French  Dramatists,"  all  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  are  valuable 
reference  books.  "Three  Modern  Plays  from  the  French " 
includes  translations  by  Mr.  Clark  of  Lavedan's  "The 
Prince  d'Aurec,"  Lemaitre's  "The  Pardon,"  and  Donnay's 
"The  Other  Danger."  Mr.  Clark  is  also  the  editor  of  an 
important  and  rapidly  increasing  series  of  plays  published 
by  Samuel  French.  Among  the  authors  already  repre- 
sented are  Augier,  Meilhac  and  Halevy,  Hervieu,  Tchek- 
hoff,  Giacosa,  Sardou,  Capus,  and  Bernard. 

Another  noteworthy  series  of  plays  is  that  published 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Drama  League  of  America,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.  The  list  now  includes 
Charles  Kenyon's  "Kindling,"  Echegaray's  "The  Great 
Galeoto,"  Sardou's  "Patrie!"  Francis's  "Change,"  and 
other  interesting  examples  of  play  technique. 


APPENDIX   E 

ADVICE  TO  PLAYWRIGHTS  WHO  ARE  SENDING  PLAYS  TO 
THE  ABBEY  THEATRE,  DUBLIN* 

"The  Abbey  Theatre  is  a  subsidized  theatre  with  an 
educational  object.  It  will,  therefore,  be  useless  as  a  rule 
to  send  it  plays  intended  as  popular  entertainment  and 
that  alone,  or  originally  written  for  performance  by  some 
popular  actor  at  the  popular  theatres.  A  play  to  be 
suitable  for  performance  at  the  Abbey  should  contain 
some  criticism  of  life,  founded  on  the  experience  or  per- 
sonal observation  of  the  writer,  or  some  vision  of  life,  of 
Irish  life  by  preference,  important  from  its  beauty  or  from 
some  excellence  of  style;  and  this  intellectual  quality  is 
not  more  necessary  to  tragedy  than  to  the  gayest  comedy. 

"We  do  not  desire  propagandist  plays,  nor  plays 
written  mainly  to  serve  some  obvious  moral  purpose;  for 
art  seldom  concerns  itself  with  those  interests  or  opinions 
that  can  be  defended  by  argument,  but  with  realities  of 
emotion  and  character  that  become  self-evident  when 
made  vivid  to  the  imagination. 

"The  dramatist  should  also  banish  from  his  mind  the 
thought  that  there  are  some  ingredients,  the  love-making 
of  the  popular  stage  for  instance,  especially  fitted  to  give 
dramatic  pleasure;  for  any  knot  of  events,  where  there  is 
passionate  emotion  and  clash  of  will,  can  be  made  the 

1  Quoted  in  Our  Irish  Theatre,  by  Lady  Gregory.  (G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons.) 


APPENDICES  359 

subject  matter  of  a  play,  and  the  less  like  a  play  it  is  at 
the  first  sight  the  better  play  may  come  of  it  in  the  end. 
Young  writers  should  remember  that  they  must  get  all 
their  effects  from  the  logical  expression  of  their  subject, 
and  not  by  the  addition  of  extraneous  incidents;  and  that 
a  work  of  art  can  have  but  one  subject.  A  work  of  art, 
though  it  must  have  the  effect  of  nature,  is  art  because  it 
is  not  nature,  as  Goethe  said:  and  it  must  possess  a  unity 
unlike  the  accidental  profusion  of  nature. 

"The  Abbey  Theatre  is  continually  sent  plays  which 
show  that  their  writers  have  not  understood  that  the 
attainment  of  this  unity  by  what  is  usually  a  long  shaping 
and  reshaping  of  the  plot,  is  the  principal  labour  of  the 
dramatist,  and  not  the  writing  of  the  dialogue. 

"Before  sending  plays  of  any  length,  writers  would 
often  save  themselves  some  trouble  by  sending  a  scenario, 
or  scheme  of  the  plot,  together  with  one  completely 
written  act,  and  getting  the  opinion  of  the  Reading  Com- 
mittee as  to  its  suitability  before  writing  the  whole  play." 


INDEX 


Action,  x,  xi,  xvni,  xxi- 
xxv,  2,  3,  24,  38,  48,  75- 
76,  81,  134,  217-218,  223. 

Actors  (See  Star  Parts). 

ADE,  GEORGE,  The  Col- 
lege Widow,  133-134;  The 
County  Chairman,  134; 
Mrs.  Peckham's  Carouse, 
196. 

ANDERSEN,  HANS  CHRIS- 
TIAN, 49. 

"Apart,"  The,  xiv,  123, 
126,  174. 

ARCHER,  FRANK,  226. 

ARCHER,  WILLIAM,  26-28, 
79,  94,  98-100,  122,  201, 
256. 

ARISTOTLE,  ix,  x,  xra,  2, 
37,  38,  134,  158. 

ARMSTRONG,  PAUL,  Alias 
Jimmy  Valentine,  13;  The 
Deep  Purple,  14, 187;  The 
Greyhound,  101. 

"Aside, "The,  (See 
"Apart"). 

AUBIGNAC,  ABBE  D',  86-87. 

AUGIER,  SMILE,  44,  252, 
257- 

B 

BAKER,  ELIZABETH,  Chains, 

21,  27,  135,  162. 
BALFOUR,  GRAHAM,  63. 
BALZAC,  HONORE  DE,  44. 


BARKER,  H.  GRANVILLE,  i- 
2,  108,  171;  The  Madras 
House,  112,  189,  252; 
Waste,  20-21,  252;  The 
Voysey  Inheritance,  252. 

BARRIE,  SIR  JAMES  M.,  6, 
252 ;  The  Legend  of  Leon- 
ora, 20,  182;  The  Twelve- 
Pound  Look,  196;  A  Slice 
of  Life,  80,  199. 

Beginning  the  Play,  49-51. 

BENNETT,  ARNOLD,  The 
Great  Adventure,  162; 
Milestones,  n,  150-151, 
252;  What  the  Public 
Wants,  182,  252. 

BERNARD,  TRISTAN,  257; 
Le  Danseur  inconnu,  125. 

BERNSTEIN,  HENRI,  18,  96; 
The  Assault,  97;  Israel, 
97,  163;  La  Rafale,  186; 
The  Thief,  40. 

BESANT,  SIR  WALTER,  i ,  133. 

BESIER,  RUDOLF,  Don,  218, 
252;  Lady  Patricia,  52. 

BIGGERS,  EARL  DERR,  In- 
side the  Lines,  138-142. 

BISSON,  ALEXANDRE, 
Madame  X,  184. 

Blank  Verse,  5,  167-168. 

BOUCICAULT,  DION,  224. 

BRIEUX,  EUGENE,  6,  252. 

BROADHURST,  GEORGE, 
Bought  and  Paid  For,  57; 
Innocent,  50;  To-day,  188. 


INDEX 


26l 


Brokers,  Play  (See  Placing 

the  Play). 
BROWNE,  PORTER  EMERSON, 

A  Fool  There  Was,  184, 

188;  The  Spendthrift,  184. 
BRUNETIERE,    FERDINAND, 

IX,  X,  XIII,  XXIV,  24,  III- 

112,  181. 
BUCHANAN,  THOMPSON,  The 

Bridal  Path,  1 1 1 ;  Life,  50, 

79- 

BURTON,  RICHARD,  212, 256. 

"Business"       (See  Panto- 
mime). 

BUTCHER,  S.  H.,  48. 

BYNNER,  WITTER,  7^r, 


Calderon,  39. 

CHAMBERS,  C.  HADDON, 
252;  Passers-by,  14,  15, 
124. 

Characterization,  xvi,  xvii, 
4,  25,  33-35,  40-41,  50, 
55,  130,  131,  134-155, 
170,  171,  173-174,  179, 
182,  188,  195,  198,  200, 
216. 

Character-plays,  13,  14,  17, 
134,  181,  188-190. 

Characters,  xi,  xvra,  xxi, 
xxiv,  xxx,  2-4,  16,  17, 
24,  29-32,  34,  37-39,  51, 
52,  56,  59,  60,  63,  65,  71- 
72,  77,  86,  91,  109,  115, 

119,  121,  122,  133-163, 
189,  190-192,  202,  209- 
2IO,  217,  22O,  222. 


Climax,  xiv,  xxi,  30, 94, 96, 
106-116,  136,  137,  186, 
187, 189,  203. 

COHAN,  GEORGE  M.,  65, 
223-224;  Broadway  Jones, 
213;  Hello,  Broadway!  97; 
Get-Rich-Quick  Walling- 
ford,  81;  The  Miracle 
Man,  19;  Seven  Keys  to 
Baldpate,  56. 

Coincidence,    68,    71,     90, 

114,  121-126,  186. 
COLEBY,  WILFRED  T.,  The 

Headmaster,  56. 

COLERIDGE,  S.  T.,  104. 

COLLINS,  WILKIE,  220. 

COMEDY,  25,  53,  55-58, 121. 
122,  126,  129-130,  134, 
135,  137-143,  181-183, 
!89. 

Comic  Relief  (See  Humor). 

Complication,  63-73,  85-  86. 

Conflict,  xi,  xiv,  xxn-xxv, 
24,  25-29,  37,  43-44,  64, 
70-72,  81,  86,  95,  114, 

115,  181,  189,  192,  200, 
214,  258-259. 

Connotation,   33,    174-179, 

195- 

Consistency  (See  Logic). 
Continuity,  42-45,  58. 
Contract,  The,  232-233. 
Conventionalities,  Stage,  41, 

127-131. 
Conventions,  xii,  xin,  118- 

I3I- 
COOPER,  FREDERIC  TABER, 

I,  212. 


262 


INDEX 


Copyright,  227-228. 
Crisis,  xxn-xxv,  26,  30,  37, 

63- 

CROISSET,  FRANCIS  DE,  Ar- 
stne  Lupin,  51,  97,  98, 
187;  The  Hawk,  Si,  184. 

CROSS,  WILBUR  L.,  144. 


DAVIES,  HUBERT  HENRY, 
Outcast,  20,  81,  160,  218; 
Mrs.  Goringe's  Necklace, 
15;  The  Mollusc,  252. 

DAVIS,  RICHARD  HARDING, 
The  Dictator,  14;  The 
Galloper,  252;  Miss  Civ- 
ilization, 198-199. 

DEMILLE,  W.  E.,  Food, 
199;  The  Woman,  go,  124. 

Denouement,  58-59, 1 06, 109- 
116,  136,  158,  187,  203, 
215,  222. 

Devices,  118-131. 

Dialogue,  x,  xvii-xvm,  4, 
5,  18,  24,  25,  32-35,  39, 

60,  75,  79-82>  Qi,  i°8, 
113,  119,  166-180,  185, 
195,  204,  218,  220,  259. 

DRYDEN,  JOHN,  63. 

DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE,  fits, 
rx,  xv,  9,  29,  44,  58-59, 
86,  94,  104,  108,  142-143, 
1 66,  220;  La  Dame  aux 
Camillas,  51,  224;  Le  Fils 
naturel,  9. 

DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE,  pere, 
17,  108. 


Economy,  33,  48-49,  77-78, 
130,  154-155,  167,  170- 
172,  179-180,  195,  205, 

219,  22O,  222. 

ELIOT,  GEORGE,  32. 
Emphasis,  32,  172. 
"Entrances,"  216-217. 
ERVINE,  ST.  JOHN  G.,  137; 

The  Magnanimous  Lover, 

41. 
ESENWEIN,  J.  BERG,  xvi- 

xxvi,  106, 113,  201. 
"Exits,"  216-217,  221. 
Exposition,  67,  75-83,  91, 

113,  172,  195,  203,  213- 

214,  220. 


Fable  (See  Plot). 
Fantasy,  54,  182. 
Farce,  14,  25,  40,  53,  55-58, 

IIO-III,     121,     126,     134, 
135,     137,     I8I-I84,     187- 

188,  223-224. 

FIELD,    SALISBURY,    Twin 
Beds,  14,  187. 

FlLON,    AUGUSTIN,    43,    44- 

45- 
FITCH,    CLYDE,    108,    173- 

174,  225;  Captain  Jinks, 

40;     The   City,    19,    57; 

The  Truth,  252. 
FORBES,  JAMES,  The  Chorus 

Lady,  58;    The  Traveling 

Salesman,  161. 


INDEX 


263 


FORD,  HARRIET,  The  Argyle 
Case,  187;  The  Dummy, 
91 ;  Polygamy,  20. 


GALSWORTHY,  John,  108, 
253;  The  Eldest  Son,  41, 
253;  The  Pigeon,  20, 

253. 

GARDINER,  J.  H.,  48, 194. 
Genres,  Confusion   of,  53- 

58- 
Gift,  The  dramatist's,  i,  3- 

7,  85,  92,  94,  101. 
GILLETTE,   WILLIAM,  Held 

by  the  Enemy,  52;   Secret 

Service,    52;     Sherlock 

Holmes,  187. 
GOETHE,  39, 40,  259. 
Gozzi,  G.,  xi,  39. 
GREGORY,  LADY,  137,  196, 

253- 

H 

HAMILTON,  CLAYTON,  xvm, 
xxrv,  256;  The  Big  Idea, 

55,  159- 
HAMILTON,  COSMO,  xv;  The 

Blindness  of  Virtue,  21. 
"Happy  Ending,"  The,  57, 

60,  162-164. 
HARCOURT,  CYRIL,  A  Pair 

of   Silk    Stockings,    121, 

159-160. 
HARDY,   THOMAS,    Tess   of 

the  d'Urbervilles,  122. 


HASTINGS,  B.  MACDONALD, 
That  Sort,  160-161;  The 
New  Sin,  18. 

HAUPTMANN,  GERHART,  42- 
43,  1 68,  153;  The  Beaver 
Coat,  150,  153;  The  Con- 
flagration, 150,  253;  The 
Weavers,  148-150,  189, 

253- 

HEGEL,  G.  W.  F.,  rx,  x. 
HENDERSON,  ARCHIBALD, 

25- 
HENLEY,  W.  E.,  Macaire, 

5i>  56. 
HENNEQUIN,  ALFRED,  181. 

HENRY,  O.,  13. 

HERVIEU,  PAUL,  221,  253, 
257;  Know  Thyself,  253, 
256. 

HOLZ,  ARNO,  42. 

HOUGHTON,  STANLEY,  Bin- 
die  Wakes,  20,  41,  135, 
253;  Trust  the  People,  142. 

HOWELLS,  W.  D.,  The  Rise 
of  Silas  Lapham,  79. 

HUGO,  VICTOR,  Hernani,  14, 
253;  Lucrece  Borgia,  16; 
Le  Roi  s' amuse,  16;  Ruy 
Bias,  16,  20,  125,  253. 

Humor,  xiv,  52,  53,  69,  72, 
75,  115,  119-121,  131, 
166,  187,  195,  213. 

I 

IBSEN,  HENRIK,  xiv,  6,  50, 
59,  151-152,  222,  253;  A 
Doll's  House,  12-13,  151- 
152,  253;  Ghosts,  n,  26, 


264 


INDEX 


27 »  253;  The  Lady  from 
the  Sea,  182;  The  Master 
Builder,  19;  Rosmersholm, 
50,  253;  The  Wild  Duck, 
60. 

Ideas,  Plays  of,  181,  190- 
192. 

Illusion  (See  Verisimili- 
tude). 

Incident,  4-5,  14,  24,  259. 

Irish  Theatre,  The,  136-137, 
142,  196,  258-259. 

J 

JAMES,  HENRY,  130-131, 
189-190. 

JEROME,  JEROME  K.,  Esther 
Castways,  142 ;  The  Pass- 
ing of  the  Third  Floor 
Back,  19,  188,  253. 

JONES,  HENRY  ARTHUR,  18, 
27,  253;  Mrs.  Dane's  De- 
fense, 41,  253;  Joseph 
Entangled,  20;  The  Liars, 
41,  253;  Lydia  Gilmore, 
53 ;  Mary  Goes  First,  161 ; 
Michael  and  His  Lost  An- 
gel, 40,  58,  253;  We  Can't 
Be  as  Bad  as  All  That,  41 ; 
Whitewashing  Julia,  41, 
253- 

K 

KENNEDY,  CHARLES  RANN, 
The  Servant  in  the  House, 
19,  253;  The  Wintet feast, 
179. 


KENYON,  CHARLES,  Kin- 
dling, 14,  19,  253,  257. 

KLEIN,  CHARLES,  15;  The 
District  Attorney,  15;  The 
Lion  and  the  Mouse,  15; 
The  Third  Degree,  15. 

KNOBLAUCH,  EDWARD,  The 
Headmaster,  56;  Marie- 
Odile,  79;  Milestones,  n, 
150-151,  252;  My  Lady's 
Dress,  48,  55. 

KNOWLES,  J.  SHERIDAN, 
Virginius,  14. 


LEBLANC,  MAURICE,  Ar- 
stne  Lupin, 51,97,98, 187. 

LESSING,  G.  E.,  ix,  12,  97, 
181. 

Logic,  xi,  3,  4,  5,  16,  29-30, 
41-42,58-60,86,122,14,3 
154,  158-164,  203-204, 
216-217,  222,  259. 

LORD,  CHESTER  S.,  26. 

LYTTON,  BULWER,  Riche- 
lieu, 75. 

M 

MACHUGH,  AUGUSTIN,  Of- 
ficer 666, 14,  56,  224,  230. 

MAETERLINCK,  MAURICE, 
6,  40,  191,  254;  The  Blue 
Bird,  20,  254. 

MACK,  WILLARD,  Kick  In, 
88,  187;  Vindication,  199- 
200. 

MACKAYE,  PERCY,  168,  253; 
To-morrow,  179. 


INDEX 


265 


Managers  (See  Placing  the 

Play). 
MANNERS,  J.  HARTLEY,  The 

House  Next  Door,  52,  254; 

The    Woman    Intervenes, 

198. 
Manuscript,    Specimen 

Pages  of,  249-251. 
MARLOWE,    CHRISTOPHER, 

40. 
MASSINGER,  PHILIP,  A  New 

Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  135. 
MASON,  A.   E.   W.,  Green 

Stockings,  42,  213. 
MATTHEWS,  BRANDER,  25, 

80,  151,  256. 

MAUPASSANT,  GUY  DE,  177. 
MAYO,    MARGARET,    Twin 

Beds,  14,  187. 
MEGRUE,  Roi  COOPER,  It 

Pays  to  Advertise,  21,  99; 

Under  Cover,  56,  88,  96, 

98-99,  no,  120,  187. 
Melodrama,  14,  25,  40,  55- 

58,  91,  121, 126, 129,  134, 

135,  137,  162,  163,  164, 

181-187. 
Mise  en  scSne  (See  Setting). 

MODERWELL,    H.    K.,    XIX, 

256. 

MOFFAT,  GRAHAM,  A  Scrape 

o'  the  Pen,  13. 
MOLIERE,  39,  40,  1 66;  Tar- 

'tu/e,  144,  151. 
MOLNAR,      FERENC,       The 

Phantom  Rival,  20, 48,  81, 

174. 
Monologue  (See  Soliloquy). 


MONTGOMERY,    JAMES, 

Ready  Money,  xxvi,  56, 

in. 
MOODY,  WILLIAM  VAUGHN, 

The  Great  Divide,  16,  231, 

254- 
MOORE,  CARLISLE,  Stop 

Thief ,  223-224. 
Motivation  (See  Logic). 
MURRAY,  T.  C.,  137;   The 

Drone,  135. 
Mystification  (See  Secret). 

N 

NEILSON,  WILLIAM  ALLAN, 

144. 

NERVAL,  GERARD  DE,  39. 
NORRIS,  FRANK,  85. 
Novelty  of  Plot,  39-41. 

O 

O'HiGGiNS,  HARVEY  J.,  The 
Argyle  Case,  187;  The 
Dummy,  91 ;  Polygamy, 
20. 

One-Act  Play,  The,  194- 
201,  230. 


Pantomime,  x-xi,  xiv, 
xvin,  5,  24,  25,  32-33,  35, 
39,  87,  108,  166-167,  174, 
177-179,  221. 

PARKER,  H.  T.,  18. 

PARKER,  Louis  N.,  254; 
The  Highway  of  Life,  49; 
Pomander  Walk,  135, 188. 


266 


INDEX 


PATTERSON,  JOSEPH,  ME- 
DILL,  The  Fourth  Estate, 
162-163. 

PELLISSIER,  GEORGES,  9, 
16-17,  J66. 

PERRY,  BLISS,  37,  78,  106, 
108-109,  144-145. 

PHILLIPS,  STEPHEN,  40, 168. 

PICARD,  ANDRE,  L'Ange 
gardien,  96,  101-103,  152- 
153,  175- 

PINERO,  SIR  ARTHUR  WING, 
xii,  xxx,  6,  16,  153,  221, 
223,  254;  The  Gay  Lord 
Quex,  96,  254;  His  House 
in  Order,  79,  254;  Mid- 
Channel,  57,  254;  Pre- 
serving Mr.  Panmure,  56; 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tan- 
queray,  20,  27,  50,  123, 
161,  254,  256;  The  Thun- 
derbolt, 20,  53,  108,  128, 
254- 

Placing  the  Play,  204-205, 
208,  226-234. 

Plot,  xvn,  xxi,  2,  3,  5,  n- 
12,17-18,24-74,112,119, 

121,    122,    130,    131,    135, 

136,  154,  161-164,  170, 

171,  179,  182,  188,  190- 

192,    195,    202,    2O3,    212, 
215,217,  220,  259. 

Plot-and-Character  Harmo- 
ny, 2,  25,  29-30,  41-42, 

6O,  I09-IIO,  158-164,  222, 

259  (See  Logic). 
Plot  Novelty,  17-18,  39-41. 


"  Plot-ridden  "     Characters 

(See   Plot-and-Character 

Harmony). 
POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN,  37, 158, 

194-195. 

POLLOCK,  CHANNING,  88. 
POLTI,  GEORGES,  39. 
Preparation,  xrv,  67,  85-92, 

114,  220. 
PRESBREY,     EUGENE     W., 

Raffles,  98,  187. 
Probability  (See  Logic). 
Problem  Play,  The,  52-53, 

129. 

Production,  233-234. 
"Properties,"  88,  90. 
Proportion,  32,  35,  222. 


Realism,  xi,  xvn-xrx,  42- 
45,  126,  135-143*  164, 
168-170,  172,  173,  174, 
178-179,  183-186,  202- 
203,  218-219. 

REGNIER,  HENRI  DE,  103. 

REIZENSTEIN,  ELMER  L., 
On  Trial,  48,  50-51,  78, 
82,  91,  101,  no,  224. 

ROBERTSON,    TOM,    Caste, 

135- 

ROSTAND,  EDMOND,  6,  168, 
210,  221,  254;  L'Aiglon, 
19,  254;  Chantecler,  182, 
223,  254;  Cyrano  de  Ber- 
gerac,  91,  175-176,  177" 
178,  235-248,  254;  La 
Samaritaine,  127,  174. 


INDEX 


267 


"Rules,"  Dramatic,  xn- 
xvi,  xxv-xxvi,  i,  7,  9, 
220-223. 


SARCEY,  FRANCISQUE,  ix, 
x,  xn,  4,  53-54,  55,  59, 
75,  85,  92,  104,  107-108, 
in,  1x8,  125,  127,  142- 
143,  160,  166,  178-179, 
1 80,  203. 

SARDOU,  VICTORIEN,  4,  18, 
186,  254,  257;  Le  Croco- 
dile, 54;  Divorfons,  40, 
254;  Ftdora,  178; 
Madame  Sans-GQne,  210. 

Satire,  53,  54,  182,  199. 

SCARBOROUGH,  GEORGE, 
What  Is  Love?  19,  20. 

Scenario,  59-60,  92,  201- 
205,  235-248,  259. 

Scenery  (See  Setting). 

SCHILLER,  xi,  39. 

SCRIBE,  EUGENE,  18, 44,  75, 
81,  88,  186,  254. 

Secret  (Kept  from  Audi- 
ence) xv,  97-105. 

Self-criticism,  204,  212-225. 

Setting,  xix-xxi,  48-49, 
220,  222. 

SHAKESPEARE,  xix,  39, 104, 

-  130,  223;  As  You  Like  It, 
xx,  26,  27,  151;  Hamlet, 
xvm,  10,  n,  19,  26,  27, 
108,  118-119,  170;  Julius 
Ceesar,  108;  King  Lear, 
26,  27;  Macbeth,  9-10,  n, 


19,  108,  203;  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  118; 
Othello,  26,  27,  144. 

SHAW,  GEORGE  BERNARD, 
6,  40,  254;  Candida,  199, 
254;  Fanny's  First  Play, 
120,  169,  182,  218,  254; 
How  He  Lied  to  Her  Hus- 
band, 199;  Man  and  Su- 
perman, n,  40,  254;  Pyg- 
malion, 20, 218, 254;  You 
Never  Can  Tell,  21,  254. 

SHELDON,  EDWARD,  225; 
The  Garden  of  Paradise, 
49;  The  High  Road,  50, 
150;  The  Nigger,  186, 
254;  Romance,  40,  255. 

SIMS,  GEORGE  R.,  The 
Lights  o'  London,  in, 
185-186. 

SISMONDI,  J.  C.  L.  DE,  75, 
118. 

Situation,  xi,  4-5,  39,  136, 
213. 

Soliloquy,  xrv,  123,  126, 
127,  174. 

Solution  (See  Denouement). 

SOPHOCLES,  39;  (Edipus 
Rex,  26,  27. 

SOWERBY,  GITHA,  Ruther- 
ford  and  Son,  146,  255. 

SPENCER,  HERBERT,  x,  222. 

Stage  Directions,  206-210, 
219. 

STAPLETON,  JOHN,  A  Gen- 
tleman of  Leisure,  124. 

Star  Parts,  51,  219,  226, 
227,  229-230,  234. 


268 


INDEX 


STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis, 

x,    xxx,    24,    63,    130; 

Macaire,  51,  56. 
Stock  Companies,  231-232. 
Story  (See  Plot). 
Story-play,  The,  13,  14,  33" 

34,  134,  181. 
STRONG,    AUSTIN,    The 

Drums  of  Oude,  196,  197. 
Sub-plot,  The,  52,  118-119, 

130. 

SUDERMANN,      HERMANN, 

221,  255;  Magda  (Hei- 
mat),  20,  41,  255;  Mori- 
turi,  196. 

Surprise,  xiv,  86,  90,  94- 
105,  114,  115,  189,  203. 

Suspense,  xiv,  xxv,  38,  86, 
94-105,  106-109,  IJ4>  II5> 
189,  203,  220. 

SUTRO  ALFRED,  The  Man 
in  Front,  197-198. 

Symmetry,  52,  60. 

SYNGE,  JOHN  MILLINGTON, 
137,  255;  The  Playboy  of 
the  Western  World,  100, 
179,  255;  Riders  to  the 
Sea,  196,  255,  256;  The 
Well  of  the  Saints,  20, 
255- 

T 

TARKINGTON,  BOOTH,  Beau- 
ty and  the  Jacobin,  197; 
The  Gentleman  from  In- 
diana, 104;  The  Man 
from  Home,  125,  255. 

Tension  (See  Suspense). 


Theme,  xvii,  xxn,  9-21, 
29-30,  67,  113,  114,  215, 

217,  221. 

Thesis  (See  Theme). 

THOMAS,  A.  E.,  The  Big 
Idea,  55,  159. 

THOMAS,  AUGUSTUS,  28-29, 
76-77,  87-90,  170,  221, 
255,  256;  Arizona,  12, 
161,  255;  ,4s  a  Man 
Thinks,  12,  82,  89-90, 
123-  124,  128,  171-  172, 
217,  255;  Mere  Man,  225; 
The  Model,  124,  225;  The 
Witching  Hour  n,  12,  65- 
72,  113-116,  231,  255, 
256- 

Tragedy,  25,  40,  53,  55-58, 
121,  122,  134,  135,  137, 
181-183,  189. 

"Triangle  of  Information," 
The,  88-90. 

TROLLOPE,  ANTHONY,  133. 

TURGENIEFF,  I.  S.,  130-131. 

Types,    133-135,    144-146, 

I53-I55- 

Typewriting  the  Play,  205- 
208,  219,  221,  249-251. 

U 

Underplot  (See  Sub-plot). 
Unity,  17, 32, 52-60, 220, 259. 
URBAN,  JOSEPH,  49. 


Vaudeville,  54,  78-79,  196- 

200,  213,  230. 
VEGA,  LOPE  DE,  181,  224. 


INDEX 


VEILLER,  BAYARD,  Within 
the  Law,  14,  99,  176-177, 
187. 

Verisimilitude,  5,  55,  58, 
130,  131,  133,  144. 

Verse,  Blank,  5,  167-168. 

VIGNY,  ALFRED  DE,  17. 

W 

WALKLEY,  A.  B.,  9. 

WALLACE,  EDWARD,  The 
Switchboard,  127. 

WALTER,  EUGENE,  The 
Easiest  Way,  xxv,  58, 
154,  164;  Paid  in  Full, 
57-58,  231;  The  Trail  of 
the  Lonesome  Pine,  179. 

WARD,  A.  W.,  3,  112. 

WILDE,  OSCAR,  120,  179; 
The  Importance  of  Being 


Earnest,  14,  255;  Lady 
Windermere's  Fan,  120, 
161,  255;  A  Woman  of  No 
Importance,  20,  255. 

WILSON,  HARRY  LEON,  The 
Man  from  Home,  125, 
255- 

Wit  (See  Humor). 

WODEHOUSE,  P.  G.,  A  Gen- 
tleman of  Leisure,  124. 


YEATS,  W.  B.,  137,  196. 


ZANGWILL,  ISRAEL,  The 
Melting  Pot,  179,  255; 
The  War  God,  168. 

ZOLA,  EMILE,  32. 


in 

A     000026364     0 


